Foul Weather Friend
by waking epiphany
Summary: When you have no one left and nothing left to lose, you'll do anything to get your life back. Sydney Bristow and Julian Sark must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, and in the process, possibly save each other.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany  
**Rating:** R, currently, for language and illusions to male arousal ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sarks' past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonimity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiance, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote the majority of this first chapter last summer, before season 5 started, so over the months and especially the past week I've been tweaking it a bit to accommodate some of the season 5 storyline, but the majority of the fic does not concern season 5 at all. So, for all intents and purposes, Vaughn is dead and no one has even heard of Rachel Gibson :-) Not that we discriminate against different pairings…anyway, what I'm looking for is constructive criticism, any comments you might have, and your opinions on whether or not you, the Sarkney loving audience, would like to see me continue writing this fic.

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If only he had put the shampoo bottle back where he had found it, Sark would not have the cold steel of a knife pressed against the soft flesh of his throat. Mere centimeters of skin separated the killing blade from his jugular. However, he also suspected he never would have had a towel clad Sydney Bristow lying on his chest at the very same time. From this scintillating viewpoint, he felt the two things almost balanced themselves out. Beads of water from the shower she had only just been in moments before slid down her skin, soaking Sark's shirt and pants. She hovered over him, her knee digging painfully into his sternum; her knife, poised against his pulsing jugular; her face, centimeters away from his.

"Tell me why I shouldn't slit your throat," she whispered to him. Beads of water still clung to her eyelashes. Her mouth was infuriatingly close to his. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now. And make it good. I'm not having a very good day." Their heavy breathing was synchronized, panting in and out simultaneously. Sark held in his breath, drawing out the moment she lay on top of him, as if this breath were his last.

"I think we could be of some assistance to one another." His blue eyes searched her brown ones. "It's not as if she means nothing to me, you know." His eyes strayed from hers then, roving her body as she lay atop him, her towel riding high on her thighs. Despite the cold threat of death pressing sharply against his neck, Sark felt another need throbbing within him that had nothing to do with the assignment at hand.

"Her?" Sydney asked. She hesitated, and Sark saw an expression of bewilderment cross her face. "Her who?"

Sark stared at her, the incredulity he felt manifesting itself into a smirk. "You mean…you don't know?" He often felt pleasure in knowing things others did not, but with Sydney Bristow, chances for this kind of advantage were few and far between, and it never ceased to amuse him, despite the circumstances it dealt with in this particular instance.

Sydney felt a sense of déjà vu wash over her, staring at that infuriating, knowing smirk plastered on Sark's face. She'd seen him smile only once before, visiting him in his cell after she awoke in Taipei only to find 2 years of her life had been taken away from her. He took pleasure in her ignorance, he smiled at her misfortune. She wanted to rip that calculating smile right off his smug little face.

"You tell me what all this is about and I might consider not slitting your throat today," she threatened. To emphasize her point, she raised the knife from his throat and raised it above her head, her body taut like a lethal cobra, set to strike him down. "Start talking."

Maybe it was his pride, wounded that she taken him down so quickly. Maybe it was his innate instinct to hold back exactly what an enemy desires. Or maybe, just maybe, he relished the thought that nobody hated him quite as much as Sydney Bristow did. Whatever it was, he just couldn't help himself. He laughed.

"Sorry Mr. Sark," Sydney spat, her eyes livid, her mouth set in a determined line. "We're done here." And as she brought the knife down, Sark bit down hard on his lip. The metallic tang of his own blood invaded his mouth as he anticipated the killing blow.

**30 Hours Previous**

Julian Sark was enjoying a glass of lemonade poolside at his estate in the Greek Islands, finishing the novel he had only begun that very morning. He sipped from the glass and placed the sweating tumbler on the marble tabletop with a tanned hand and then turned a page of a book. He was steadily reading through his entire library at the estate, and made a note to himself to go about procuring more literature to satisfy him in the coming months.

He had been reading almost nonstop since he started his doctor recommended sabbatical four months earlier. The headaches started shortly after he had re entered the workforce after being released from his year long incarceration. Before the downfall of Elena Derevko and, in turn, The Covenant, he had been on an op to breaking into a CIA secured facility to obtain a certain next gen piece of technology for the cruelest Derevko sister. The headache started halfway through the mission and within two minutes he had blacked out from the pain. He awoke to find himself outside the facility, in the middle of hotwiring a Ferrari that had been impounded as evidence.

Fortunately, the slip hadn't been caught by the people he was stealing from and the people who would kill him if he didn't get what he was supposed to steal. What he couldn't fathom was how he continued moving along, albeit seemingly off on his own personal desire for the Ferrari, after he had blacked out. He couldn't remember a thing from the start of the headache until he was elbows deep in Ferrari's wires. The mission had been carried off without a hitch, but it became apparent this was something he couldn't let slide. That blackout scared him more than any mission he had ever been on. It meant a loss of control that Sark wasn't willing to part with. He went to a neurologist a few days later.

"Too much stress, Mr. Smith," the doctor had told him. "As far as I can tell from your MRI and tests, there is no physical cause of your headaches and temporary fugue states. You are suffering from extreme exhaustion and anxiety. These blackouts seem to be self-induced, subconsciously of course. As sure as I'm a doctor, I'm telling that if you don't take some time off you'll land yourself in an early grave."

Sark unrolled his sleeve after the blood pressure cuff had been removed and gave the doctor a small smile. "It's possible I'll be landing myself into an early grave as it is, Doctor. In my line of work, it's not uncommon." He had hoped this would be the end of things. Sark gathered his things and made for the door.

"What in this world could make a 26 year old man suffer so?" Sark did not turn around, but merely called over his shoulder as he strode out of the office.

"Ladies underwear salesman. Good day, doctor." Sark continued out of the office and into the parking lot. He only had two hours to pack and memorize the newest mission specs. He blacked out taking the car keys out of his coat pocket, smacking his head off of the macadam parking lot, suffering a mild concussion. He started his early retirement the very next day.

Sark drained the last of his lemonade and called to his maid, Marta, without averting his eyes from the page in his book. The second after he called her, she tapped him on the shoulder, startling him. He had been directly behind him and he had not even realized.

This disconcerted the normally composed Sark. He prided himself by being meticulously observant of the smallest noise and change around him. He learned of this invaluable talent at a very young age and has been one of the only things keeping him alive in his chosen career field. But, If Marta had startled him, he was losing his touch. He cleared his throat and pointed at his glass.

"Could you fetch me another glass of lemonade, Marta? Today's batch is especially good." Marta picked up his glass onto the tray she was carrying and Sark returned to his novel. Marta, however, did not leave to the kitchen right away.

"Mister Pitt, were you expecting correspondence today?"

Sark lifted his eyes from the page, looked into the elderly woman's lined, olive toned face and cocked his head slightly to one side. She had taken are of his Greek Island estate since he had purchased it five years ago and although it was sometimes months before he returned to it, she had learned Sark's mannerisms and their meaning within months of working for him. She often told him that he reminded her of her grandson. She said that although "while seemingly calm, you have thunderstorms underneath your tranquil surface." Her simple metaphor tapped into his psyche almost too close for comfort, but Sark nevertheless kept the image close to heart. Thought she did not know Sark's real name, Marta did know that the slight cock of his head meant Sark had no idea what she was talking about. She watched his face as his eyebrows narrow in uncertainty and concern.

"Correspondence, Marta?" Sark asked. She nodded and picked up a scarlet envelope from the tray she placed his glass on and laid it on the table.

"I was cleaning kitchen and one minute, I am cleaning garbage disposal. Next minute, this letter is right on counter. Out of nowhere. Should I be worried?" Marta asked. She did not like the look on her employer's face. His eyes clouded over like she had never seen. "Letters do not normally come here, is that why this envelope troubles you so, Mr. Pitt?"

Sark did not answer right away. He slowly put his bookmark into his novel and placed it on the table. He placed his hand next to the envelope but still, hesitated on picking it up.

"No, Marta. I'm not troubled because letters don't normally come here. This just means something important has come up. Excuse me for a moment, will you?"

Marta nodded. "Of course."

Sark rose from his chaise lounge, tightening the knot in his white drawstring linen pants. He traipsed through the expansive backyard to the house, making his way through the classically furnished home and into the study. The envelope was sealed, not with self stick adhesive, but with an old fashioned wax seal. Puzzled, he slid his finger through the seal and found single disk. He slipped the disk into a computer and sat down on the executive leather chair, fingers folded in his lap, and the video began to play.

Years back, Sark took pains to assure that when information on certain people and things became available, he would have unlimited access to the intel. It had proved to be an invaluable on more than one occasion, in both his professional and personal life. Such intel had never come in such an elaborate and decorative manner, but it had piqued his interest nonetheless.

This bit of video, a mere 43 seconds long, played on repeat 6 times before Sark willed himself to press stop.

It was impossible. Hadn't he only spoken to her days before? The room swayed slightly, and Sark willed himself to stay in the room, willed the blackness to fade from his vision. This was no time for weakness. Immediate action needed to be taken…he wouldn't let this happen to him again.

_I won't let you die this time, Irina. Not again._

And then he knew what must be done. He knew who he had to turn to. And thanks to his foresight on obtaining information pertaining to certain individuals, he knew just where to find her.

Sark was on a plane bound for Phoenix thirty minutes later.

Dusk and temperature were falling as Sark darted in the shadows behind the houses of Davis St. He had used all the information tools at his disposal to find out where Sydney had ensconced herself for the past several months. It hadn't been easy, tracking her down. She had taken pains to keep herself hidden for the past two months. But, like all things, all it took was the right connections and the right amount of money, and Sydney's current location was his.

He had been staking out number 147 for the past few hours from a neighbor's tool shed and had seen Miss Bristow from a safe distance until her departure from her house. It had been months since he given Ana Espinosa as a gift to Sydney, since they had pretended to be lovers in that smoky club. Even though she wore sunglasses and a baseball cap low over her face and she went out for a run, he felt a familiar stirring of attraction and competition heat up within him.

_Hello, Sydney._

It was something about the way she moved, the way she tucked a strand of her chocolate-colored hair behind her ear, the stride in her step. It was the barely contained energy beneath her surface, something that reminded him of himself in a way, only more subdued, refined. She had a poise and elegance that had taken years of training from boarding school and Irina Derevko to perfect in himself

_Irina._

As he watched Sydney, jogging in place, stretching her lean frame for an evening run, the purpose of his being here slammed resolutely back into place. Sark watched, somewhat reluctantly, as Sydney jogged into the distance, passing out of sight down the street. He approached the house stealthily, his dark clothes aiding in his unseen advance.

Sark recalled Sydney's long, shapely legs stretching for her evening run as he studied her security system. When she had bent over to stretch it made Sark bite his lip and groan hopelessly. The way she filled them out her running shorts made this stakeout almost enjoyable, until he remembered why he was there. He pulled his thoughts together and pried the consul open. The trick was to leave the power on and have the system appear as if it were functioning normally, but severing the sensory input and looping the video feed. It would be difficult for this complex a system, but he had some inside information that would make the task easily attainable.

Marshall Flinkman had explained the process to him on one of his visits to Sark's cell when he had been incarcerated by the CIA. Flinkman had babbled nonsensically while they ate eggs. Scrambled for Marshal, sunny side up for Sark. Though he would never admit it to anyone but himself, Marshall's visits were one of the few high points of Sark's captivity. He enjoyed the twitchy little man, ever since his brief stint in the SD-6 office. Unfortunately, Flinkman's fear of Sark reeked like week old fish whenever he was in his presence. Sark was accustomed to this reaction to his presence in people but found Flinkman's panic of him to be slightly disappointing. And now, he saw, those visits proved functional as well as interesting as Sark completed the process and closed the consul. He now had free reign of the house.

As Sark stepped over the threshold, the pervy nature of bugging Sydney's home crept into his mind one again. He usually had no problem compartmentalizing his work from his personal feelings, save for a few mistakes in the past. A stakeout was a stakeout and nothing more. However, this had not started out as an emotionally void assignment. He suspected it would take a toll on him in time. Though, in this particular instance, he pondered the obvious benefits of the voyeuristic portion of the mission.

He had wanted to get a feel on how much Sydney knew about the recent development concerning her mother; well, actually, her mother and father. Sark hadn't concerned himself much on Jack Bristow; he had never cared for the man. He could respect that he was a man that got the job done, but he lacked any of the charisma and character he expected of a man that could keep Irina's interests. His concern lay for Irina right now…Irina and Sydney.

He realized he was dawdling and returned to his task. He opened a door off of the hallway and found the bathroom. He grinned to see Sydney favored a slightly transparent shower curtain as he attached the minuscule camera to the top of her medicine cabinet. The curtain was not clear enough to see everything, he surmised, but enough to let his imagination run a little wild. Sark pulled out the pocket sized wireless screen that the feed from the cameras lead into. It was working perfectly. As he swept from the bathroom, something stopped him.

A scent. A distinctly feminine scent that clung to his nostrils. An increasingly familiar scent that was making him breathe in, over and over again, trying to place its origin. His inability to place the smell was exasperating, and he searched the bathroom quickly. He opened the shower curtain and smelled the soap, smelled the shower gel. As reached over to the wall ledge he picked up a bottle, flicked the cap of Sydney's shampoo. The scent washed over him and he closed his eyes to savor it. Orange blossom, with a hint of spice. It was the scent of every failure he had ever suffered at the hands of Miss Bristow, everything she'd ever done that had grudgingly demanded his respect, every look she had given him that had left him dumbstruck, if only for a moment.

It was driving him crazy.

But he had work to do.

Sark closed the shampoo and placed it on the outside lip of the tub. He continued onto the living room, placing a bug on top of a bookshelf. His eyes glazed past the titles, recognizing many as novels he himself had read. He felt the minutes drift by, and he forced himself to hurry along. If he could find out what Sydney knew, without the complication of her actually being involved in the process, then all the better. He could not afford to make a mess of it. He hurried into the bedroom.

Like the rest of the ranch home, the bedroom was as simply but beautifully furnished as the living room. Sark brushed his fingertips across the bed. Egyptian cotton, at least 400 count. That damned scent lingered as he worked on the bug on top of Sydney's television. He was checking the feed on the monitor when the front door opened.

_Fuck. Me._

He immediately went to the window. It was locked. Since he disabled the security alarm, he tried to flick the latch over. However, when he moved it slightly, it squeaked. His heart was pounding faster now as he abandoned the window. The front door closed and he heard the beep of Sydney "setting" her security alarm. She was approaching the bedroom fast. He had no time to hide. He crouched by the far wall of the bedroom, out of her line of sight, his hand on his weapon, waiting to be caught.

She walked past the bedroom without looking inside and continued on to the bathroom. Sark felt around in his pocket. He still had the pocket monitor; he could watch her whereabouts and get out of here without being seen. He could get away without being detected. He watched her on the monitor as she entered the bathroom.

She pulled off her baseball cap, her back toward the camera. Sydney's brunette locks, the color of dying leaves in autumn, tumbled freely over her shoulders. She swept a hand through her hair, holding it entangled for a moment's pause, as if thinking. She sighed audibly, so that even down the hallway, Sark heard the sound of release. Sark held his breath as she let hers out, and on his handheld screen, Sydney took off her top. The smooth, vanilla skin of her back teased him unmercifully, but not as much as the thin clasp of her bra as it separated him from a view of her more appealing assets. He needed to stop watching, he needed to leave right now. He could slip by her as her back was to him, undetected, his identity preserved. His professionalism was gone, pulled from him at the very sight of this woman. He kept watching.

She bent over, untying her shoes and taking off her socks. She tossed them on the ground and then fingered the waistband of her shorts. She peeled them down her long legs slowly. Her rounded curves, that had looked tantalizing in the shorts as he watched her from afar, could not prepare him for their presence in the flesh. He felt sweat beading on his brow and collecting in other not so visible places as she straightened back up, breathtaking in her near nakedness. A slight black thong rode low on her hips. She reached around and unclasped the matching bra from the back, tossing it on the ground next to her shoes and socks. At last, she peeled off the thong and Sark willed himself to keep focus.

_Leave. Leave you pervy sod_.

It was no use. Her perfect figure was affecting his body in the most instinctive and obvious way possible. He willed himself not go grow hard as he stared at her back, his eyes taking in every inch of her. If Sark had ever felt foolish enough to wish for anything, he wished now for Sydney to turn around.

She didn't. She reached to her right and opened a linen closet, grasping a towel in her hand. As she leaned, Sark glimpsed the soft outline of her breast. The battle between mind and his more sensitive bits waged within his body. If he felt he could move, it would not be to flee as he obviously should. He was torn between wanting to touch her and wanting to flee. He did neither. He kept watching the screen.

She stepped over her clothes and opened the curtain. She tossed the towel on the curtain rod above her. She pushed open the shower curtain and stepped inside. She turned slightly toward the camera, turning the shower on, her arm and leg shielding the part of her Sark so desperately longed to see. As the water came down, she reached and closed the curtain closed. He could only glimpse the outline of her glorious form. The curves of her breasts and buttocks, the leanness of her abdomen, the feline arch of her back, the length of her legs; just out of reach and sight. It was now of never if he were to leave and Sark chose now.

He eased past out of the door of the bedroom and into the hallway. The door of the bathroom stood open, a shaft of light creeping out onto the hardwood floor like a beacon leading him to shore. He kept close to the wall, watching the monitor as he went. He needed to pass by the open bathroom door to exit the house without detection. However, he was not a man who denied himself when such an indulgence was presented.

He peered into the steam of the bathroom. She was facing away from the showerhead now, her hands up into her hair, her face into the stream. He savored the few moments when all that was separating the two of them was mist and a thin sheet of plastic. He allowed himself only a few seconds, and most reluctantly, swept past the door. He softly padded down the hallway, and then stopped, when as he watched his monitor, a hand crept out to grasp the shampoo bottle on the outside tub ledge. The hand stopped and retreated back into the shower. It crept up to the towel perched over the curtain rod and snaked it back into the shower.

_Oh bloody hell…_

Sydney threw open the curtain and Sark saw her face flash on the screen. There was no time. He did the first thing that came to mind.

He ran.

A realization came to him, as his feet started to move, that going behind Sydney's back probably wasn't the smartest plan he'd ever come up with.

In a fraction of a second, a second realization hit on like a blow to the stomach: the shampoo had been on the other side of the bathtub.

The third realization came a mere few seconds later, after he dropped the handheld monitor and slid though the hallway: he finally realized that Sydney Bristow was indeed a faster runner than himself.

The fourth realization was that he was being kicked in the back.

Sark fell, hard and fast, onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. She yanked him up by his hair, exposing his throat. The sharp blade of Sydney's knife pressed against the soft skin of his throat before he could even take a breath.

"Put your hands on your head, you perverted son of a bitch."

Sark did as he was told. He felt Sydney's hands working their way across his body. Her fingertips snaked roughly up his arms, torso, and his inner thighs. She was searching for weapons but to Sark, her touch was like fire just the same. She relieved him of his knife and Walther ASP pistol, but she continued her search until she was sure he was unarmed. Her hands were fiery hot on his flesh and only when she kicked him in the stomach and turn him over did his arousal wane to a less obvious level.

"Jesus, Sydney, where did you pull that knife from?"

"My name's not Jesus, but you can kindly shut the hell up right this second."

She was poised over him, inches from his face, the warm touch of her hands gone and replaced with the cold steel of the knife. Beads of water from the shower she had only just been in moments before slid down her skin, soaking Sark's shirt and pants. She hovered over him, her knee digging painfully into his sternum; her knife, poised against his pulsing jugular; her face, centimeters away from his.

"Tell me why I shouldn't slit your throat," she whispered to him. Beads of water still clung to her eyelashes. Her mouth was infuriatingly close to his. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now. And make it good. I'm not having a very good day." Their heavy breathing was synchronized, panting in and out simultaneously. Sark held in his breath, drawing out the moment she lay on top of him, as if this breath were his last.

"I'm going to assume your order to 'kindly shut the hell up' is hereby rescinded until explain myself. I think we could be of some assistance to one another." His blue eyes searched her brown ones. "It's not as if she means nothing to me, you know." His eyes strayed from hers then, roving her body as she lay atop him, her towel riding high on her thighs. Despite the cold threat of death pressing sharply against his neck, Sark felt another need throbbing within him that had nothing to do with the assignment at hand.

"Her?" Sydney asked. She hesitated, and Sark saw an expression of bewilderment cross her face. "Her who?"

Sark stared at her, the incredulity he felt manifesting itself into a smirk. "You mean…you don't know?" He often felt pleasure in knowing things others did not, but with Sydney Bristow, chances for this kind of advantage were few and far between, and it never ceased to amuse him, despite the circumstances it dealt with in this particular instance.

Sydney felt a sense of déjà vu wash over her, staring at that infuriating, knowing smirk plastered on Sark's face. She'd only ever seen him smile once before it had only been at her own expense, after she awoke in Taipei only to find 2 years of her life had been taken away from her. He graced her now with that same maddening grin. She wanted to rip that calculating smile right off his smug little face.

"You tell me what all this is about and I might consider not slitting your throat today," she threatened. To emphasize her point, she raised the knife from his throat and raised it above her head, her body taut like a lethal cobra, set to strike him down. "Start talking."

Maybe it was his pride, wounded that she taken him down so quickly. Maybe it was his innate instinct to hold back exactly what an enemy desires. Or maybe, just maybe, he relished the thought that nobody hated him quite as much as Sydney Bristow did. Whatever it was, he just couldn't help himself. He laughed.

"Sorry Mr. Sark," Sydney spat, her eyes livid, her mouth set in a determined line. "We're done here." And as she brought the knife down, Sark bit down hard on his lip. The metallic tang of his own blood invaded his mouth as he bit his lip, anticipating the killing blow.

The knife left a large crack in the lacquered wooded floorboards. Sark finally breathed out and licked his split lip of blood. He turned his head to look at the blade, no more than an inch from his right ear.

"You'll never get your security deposit back that way, Sydney," he mused aloud.

His heart pumped blood through his veins at double speed. He tore his eyes away from the knife and back to Sydney. Though temporarily without a weapon, if looks could kill, Sark's heart would turn cold in his chest at the very sight of her. But Sydney's look did anything but leave him cold. The heat and hardness in his loins that had dissipated when he thought his life over came back slowly at a glimpse of the fierceness in her eyes. Her knife now embedded in the floor, Sydney quickly shifted on top of Sark. She pried the knife from out of the floorboards and rose to her feet, keeping her eyes on Sark the entire time. She lifted her foot and pressed the arch of it across Sark's larynx. He started to choke, coughing to try and inflate his lungs. Sydney spoke.

"I'm going to take my foot off your throat for ten seconds. If you don't tell me what the hell your sorry ass is doing in my house, I'll use this knife to neuter you."

Sark began to see spots in front of his eyes. He nodded as emphatically as he could with Sydney's foot pressed against his throat. She sighed, as if defeated, and slowly lifted her foot from his windpipe. He raised his hand and rubbed his throat, coughing. He barely resisted the urge to look up her towel. Her eyes were full of questions, but he quickly found his words before she could rob him of his testicles.

"All I ask is that you look at a disk I have with me. Look at that, and it will give you your reason. That's all. Sydney?"

Towering above him, Sydney slowly used the blade of the knife to lift up the hem of Sark's black tee-shirt. She lifted it enough to expose the tanned, muscular skin of his abdomen. She pressed the tip of the knife directly center of his stomach.

Sydney grunted, "Why should I even entertain the thought of listening to you? What in our history makes you think I'd ever believe a word that slips that forked tongue of yours?" Sark held up his hands once more in surrender, feeling more exposed than he thought he should at the sight of his own stomach.

"Although you have absolutely no reason to, I'm asking you right now, to trust me." She saw a flash of anger dart across her face, but he pressed on quickly. "We both stand to lose something very important to us. In my right pocket, there is an envelope with a disk in it. I am at your mercy, I swear it Sydney. Just look at the disk."

Sark gestured his head to his right pants pocket. He was thankful that his pants were baggy; this encounter was proving to arousing; mentally and otherwise. Sydney reached into his pants pocket, fishing around, finally retrieving the red envelope. Sark closed his eyes, praying her hand did not stray far from its intended target...he didn't need this encounter to be any more embarrassing than it already had become. She brought the disk out and turned it over, looking at it from all angles. If her hand had brushed up against potentially naughty, her face did not betray her discovery.

She held the disk in her left hand and with a look of reluctance (that left Sark wondering of its origin) lifted herself up off of him. In one hand she held the knife close to his throat but with the other, she held out her hand.

"Get up," she ordered. "And don't even think about any funny business, you hear me?" Sark looked at her open hand and accepted it. Her hand was still warm and wet from the shower as it enclosed on his cool palm. He rose to his feet and immediately put his hands in the air and allowed the knife to be placed precariously close to his throat once more.

She led him down the hallway and into the living room and only then did he notice she was a few inches shorter than him. He had always felt they were the same height; equal adversaries in stature and skill. However, her confident stance and stare had always left him feeling that he was only ever a boy in her eyes, no matter how much taller or stronger he may be. Finding out he was indeed taller than she made him feel like he had won some sort of challenge with her. She sat him down at her computer desk.

"Put it in," she ordered him. His lips upturned slightly at the possible meanings of her sentence ran through his mind.

"Gladly." His lip twitched at the very thought.

"And it better not have any viruses on it, this is a new computer."

Sark placed the disk in the CD-ROM drive.

"If it does, I'll be sure to replace your computer. You know I'm good for it." The CD-ROM drive closed and the video loaded up onto the flat screen monitor. Sydney watched silently as the scene played out in front of them. Although he had watched the video a dozen or more times, Sark's mouth pressed into a tight line and pressed his clenched hands into his lap.

Static snowed the picture, but quickly cleared to show two chairs, their occupants bound and gagged, sitting in a dark room. Blood pooled underneath them, somehow even blacker against the black floor. A flood light flashed on, illuminating the prisoners, their wounds made hideous in the unforgiving light. Sydney's parents sat stock still, even in capture unwilling to show weakness.

A hand reached out from out of the frame, holding a knife to Irina's throat, almost exactly like Sydney now held the knife to Sark's. He felt the knife slacken against his own throat as the two of them watched. Finally, a voice sounded from the speakers, presumably from the knife holder. The voice was distorted and the person's face hidden under a dark hood.

"I expect my orders to be carried out, if you want to see your parents alive. I require certain items and intel that I feel only you can procure for me, and as you can see, I know exactly what buttons to push to get them. Expect to hear from me soon. Until then…" the hooded figure pressed the blade slowly, almost lovingly, to the flesh of Irina's throat until beads of blood dotted her pale skin.

Jack Bristow's voice rang out. "I swear to God when I find out who you are…Sydney, don't!" The hooded man moved quickly, the butt of the knife hitting Jack squarely in the temple, knocking him unconscious. Irina sat silently, and the man's voice rang out once more.

"Until then, Miss Bristow."

The video went black turned in the desk chair as best he could with the knife still being a threat, looking up at Sydney. His voice was lower, all playfulness gone. "Do you need to watch it again?" A beat passed before she answered.

"I don't need to see it again. I know what it said." Sark wasn't surprised at this, but he was surprised at the tone of her voice. It had changed; it was no longer a voice that belonged to a woman in charge. It was quieter, and though Sark had never heard Sydney this way, it sounded scared.

"Sydney?"

Sydney drew the knife away from his throat and let it fall to the floor. Sark looked up at her face and was shocked to find it contorted in fear. She put the hand that, only seconds before held the knife, up to the computer screen, touching the scarred hand.

"Sydney, what is it?"

She didn't speak at first. Seconds passed and she spoke in that same scared voice, a voice that seemed not her own.

"The watch…the watch he was wearing…I gave him that watch on his last birthday. I can't believe he's still wearing it; the band was always too big. I told him it would fall off if he never let me get a different band for it. How could I not know? How could I not know something was wrong? Oh God, Mom, how could I not know…" In that moment, she was in a world all her own as the realization seeped in, turning the blood cold in her veins. She didn't even hear the words as they tumbled out of her mouth so carelessly. She was numb. She couldn't bring herself to hide the tears she felt welling up in her eyes and wouldn't feel the shame of letting Sark witness them until hours later.

Sark didn't know what drew his attention to the front door at that particular moment, but as the gravity of the situation sunk in for Sydney, a blood colored envelope floated unassumingly through the mail slot.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter One

1. "Playground Love", Air. **Listen to when:** Sark watches the video at his house for the first time and realizes he has to go find Sydney.

Lyrics: _I'm a high school lover, and you're my favorite flavor  
Love is all, all my soul  
You're my playground love _

Yet my hands are shaking  
I feel my body remains, themes no matter, I'm on fire  
On the playground, love****

2. "Walk Through Walls For You", Tonic. **Listen to when**: Sark breaks into Sydney's home, trying to bug her house. Sydney finds him and they tussle.

Lyrics: _You killed me when you came walking down the sidewalk  
Saying everything was fine  
Dressed up like a wife of a life I'll never have It's so easy to fool me  
You can turn me on  
You can turn me off  
I've had enough of that little boy sandbox stuff_

3. "A Smile That Explodes", Joseph Arthur. **Listen to when**: Sark pleads with Sydney to watch the video, which she does. Another envelope is slipped in her mail slot.

Lyrics: _Cuz it ain't easier  
Waking up at dawn  
To find I lost my crown  
If I found you there  
With flowers in your hair _

I'd hold you in my arms  
Till we came back down  
A smile that explodes  
I could never understand


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sarks' past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonimity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiance, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Wow, chapter two was finished a lot earlier than previous anticipated. I hope everyone who read chapter one will indulge me and check out the next installment. And for everyone who hasn't read yet, please see the post above this one. Enjoy!

* * *

It took several minutes of silence for the reality of her parents' disappearance to set in with Sydney. She stood stock still, staring dry eyed and unblinking at the computer screen. It took several more moments to realize she had dropped her weapon on her cream colored carpet, leaving her utterly defenseless against Sark, who sat unassumingly in her computer chair, staring at her. After that thought had cemented itself, it took a half second to remember she was in only a towel. She pulled the towel down as far down her legs as possible, though at this point, Sydney thought the action was probably pointless. He had probably seen enough of her in their earlier tussle through the hallways to last the little pervert for years. 

She saw his eyes looking past her to the front door and she followed his gaze, seeing the crimson envelope sitting unassumingly on her carpet.

She stared at it for a moment and then turned to Sark. "Stay here," she commanded. Sark crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking like a petulant child who'd been scolded.

"I'm not a dog, you know," he responded irritably. _She was so self-important, ordering him around like a pup. She probably told Agent Vaughn to jump and he couldn't wait to ask 'how high?". No question as to who wore the pants in that relationship…_

She held the towel to her chest tightly and bent down to pick up the knife. He remained seated, not because she _told_ him to, he just didn't feel like getting up. The romp in the hallway had bruised his long out of commission body. She walked over to the door and picked up the red envelope, identical, Sark could see now, to the one he received from what he thought was a well-paid and loyal associate. He was beginning to think maybe his involvement in this matter hadn't been voluntary at all, that this envelope finding the both of them hadn't been a coincidence. No, not a coincidence at all.

Sydney turned the envelope over in her hand, a frown marring her face. She held it up and she walked back to him, accusation already in her eyes before she ever had a chance to speak.

"Is this your work, Sark?" She waved the envelope in his face. "I find it hardly a coincidence that the envelope containing that disk is identical to the one that just so _happens_ to be slipped through my mail slot just when you just so _happen_ to be here. Is this some sort of _grand_ scheme to…to do what, exactly?" Her face was turning the color of the envelope she was so carelessly brandishing about. He sprang from the chair and grabbed her wrist firmly, stopping the envelope's careless waving.

"Christ, Sydney, there could be something important in there." After steadying her wrist he gently took the envelope. He could have been mistaken, but an expression of shame flitted across her features. In an instant it was gone, and her mask of fury again reclaimed her face.

"Do you really think I'd make that kind of a tape on a lark?" Sark asked incredulously. "To do what, exactly? Get you to notice me? Frankly, Sydney, I find I can attract the attention of females without such a production as we've engaged in today…and with a lot less hostility toward me, I might add." He released her wrist and turned the envelope over and slit its fold. He made to retrieve the contents inside and stopped short. Not looking in the envelope, and not quite looking at Sydney, he posed a question to her that he regrettably already knew the answer to.

"Do you really think me to be such an evil person that I shouldn't care Irina is in danger?"

Sydney was momentarily stunned at his candor. She had never actually considered that Sark had feelings, or any sense of loyalty, besides to himself. A beat passed before she answered.

"Yes."

Sark nodded slowly. "Right," he murmured. "Of course." He put his hand in the envelope but Sydney put a hand up before he could pull out its contents.

"Wait," she started, taking a step toward him. Sark stopped in mid action and looked quizzically from the envelope to her face.

"Listen, I don't know or care what kind of…'affiliation' you had, or have, with my mother. But when it comes down to it, this is _my_ mother we're talking about. My _parents_. I don't have time to consider your feelings, whatever they may be. Give me the envelope."

She didn't try to take it from him, she merely held out her hand, expecting him to hand it over. The knife wasn't even drawn; it was hanging loosely at her side in her other hand. He removed his hand slowly from the envelope, but hesitated handing it over.

There was something distinctly empowering at being withholding to her. And yet, it obviously wasn't as simple as wanting to be withholding to Sydney Bristow. Sark simply wasn't willing to simply sit back and wait around for Irina to be killed or saved. He wasn't someone who would just sit back and wait for _anything_. And since when did he let _anyone_ tell him what he could and could not do?

"Now, Sydney, there isn't any reason why the two of us can't -" Sydney moved fast, he hadn't anticipated the attack, head butting him. He hadn't been knocked unconscious but he staggered momentarily, giving Sydney enough time to bring the butt of the knife hard into his temple. Sark crumpled onto the floor in a heap; a pile of blond hair and bruised flesh.

Sydney sighed and bent down to retrieve the fallen envelope. She went to stand back up but she faltered, her knees going out from under her. Without Sark there to judge her, she let herself fall to the ground, bringing her knees in and hugging them to her chest. She opened the envelope and did not find the disk she had expected to, but a single sheet of paper and two photos. The urge to look at the photos right away came strong and fast, but Sydney resisted, instead, turning to the paper and read.

Why send the video to Mr. Sark and not you? Some of the tasks I will ask of you require some assistance, and since your sister is indisposed as of recently, Mr. Sark proved to be as stupidly loyal to your mother as her own daughters are. I expect full compliance on both of your parts. I don't ask for much and I can assure you my end of the bargain will be carried out.

What I require as of now is a simple piece of information contained in a safe at an upscale bar and restaurant in New York called Blue. It is a cover for a Japanese organized crime syndicate, so I expect you to use caution at all times. Use whatever sources you have to find the safe within the establishment.

There is disk within the vault I need you procure. Feel free to examine it, though you won't be able to decipher its content, it's encoded and fortunately I have the decoder at my disposal. I will arrange for its delivery when I know it's in your possession. Expect another envelope with further instructions. Consider yourself under constant surveillance from this time on. And just to remind you of the stakes, I have included two photos for your perusal. Until then, I remain,

Sydney finally turned over the photographs, and the tears that had been held at bay out of defiance toward Sark tumbled down her cheek. The sobs came silently, and she rocked herself slightly, the photos of her bloody and broken parents fell between her and her fallen enemy.

Several minutes passed before Sydney could stop crying. She wondered how she could ever have more tears left. With losing so many people in her life, she thought the numb sensation would eliminate the tears eventually…she never thought she'd embrace that dead feeling. But after Vaughn's betrayal, and later his death…there was comfort in the emptiness she felt. She had grown accustomed to the numbness over the past two months of isolation. Her hand drifted over her stomach instinctively, only to quickly remove it when she realized she had done it. She wouldn't think of Vaughn now.

_Stop, Sydney. Stop right now._

But now the heartache came rushing back to her in gasping, heaving sobs. It seemed fitting though, seeing as the first tears she'd ever shed had been for her fallen mother and her absent father. Then she was crying for Nadia, who met her own mother only to be forced into a coma days later, possibly never to be awakened. Finally, she selfishly cried for herself for being forced to live this kind of life. Always lying, always fighting, always running.

Sydney took a deep breath. She'd allowed her few moments of weakness. _Just put one foot in front of the other. That's how you get through this. Just put one foot in front of the other and go._

Her immediate problem was the unconscious Englishman in her study. The notion that his being here was altruistic in nature was simply impossible. Julian Sark did not do things for other people if there wasn't something for him to have out of it. However…her thoughts returned to their last encounter and his last words to her before today.

_"Sydney! I'm a man of my word."_

And damned if he hadn't been. Ana Espinosa was in jail, he had lived up to his end of the bargain.

_But hadn't he gotten himself freedom in the process?_

Yes, he'd run away, like he always did. If there was one thing she could trust of Sark it was that he'd think of himself before anyone else. And right now she needed someone to look out for her while she thought of something to get her parents back, and the only person that was going to do that was herself.

Besides, why would she heed the advice the person who kidnapped her parents? This "Messenger" might suggest teaming up with Sark, but that would only make her all the more vehement he stay far away from her. She had to get him out of the house and away from her immediately. There was no time to lose.

Sydney smiled as she recalled another aspect of Sark's personality she could count on. She lifted herself from the carpet and stepped over his lifeless form, to the window facing the darkening street. And there it was. He had been so cocky; he hadn't even bothered to hide his rental car. Sark's vices were obvious and materialistic, like the boy himself.

_Why rent a car that would just do the job when you could rent a Lexus?_

After a quick change into clean shorts and tank top, she opened the door into the cool summer night.

_One step at a time._

With Sark's arms thrown over her shoulders, Sydney dragged him behind her over the threshold, across the lawn, and then into the street, his obviously expensive Italian shoes dragging all the way. She took the smallest pleasure in knowing she'd ruined his pricey footwear.

Her closest neighbors were away on vacation and the others had their curtains drawn for the evening, but nevertheless, she found herself growing more nervous hauling his limp form out in the open.

She finally came to the black Lexus, and she propped Sark against it. After a few second she'd picked the lock and with a great heave she threw Sark behind the driver's seat. After a taking moment to assess her work, she reached for the handle and tilted the seat back all the way.

"If you're going to be out here with the windows rolled up in 102 degree heat, the least I can do is make you comfortable," she murmured. That wasn't really true. Her originally plan had been to put him in the dumpster, but that seemed unnecessarily cruel. This seemed the better idea, and it wasn't as if she could prop him up for her neighbors to see. This would serve just fine. And by the time she woke up, she's already be in New York. And after that…who knew.

He looked so young and innocent in his slackened state of comatose.

_Good thing I know better than to think that._

Sydney shut the car door and went to pack. She had a plane to catch.

Sydney shrugged off her street cloths and into the tight, aqua colored cocktail dress uniform of the club Blue waitresses. She was hiding behind a dumpster in the an alley behind the club, changing out of her street clothes into the uniform she had managed to procure. Samantha's matching sequined high heels proved to be a bit snug, but Sydney found the overall result from stealing the new employee's uniform to be satisfactory. She was quite fortunate to find someone who was starting work at the club tonight, whose new face wouldn't be out of place among the regulars. After she'd drugged Samantha, she looked in her wallet for her address. She put her in a cab, explaining how her friend had had far too much to drink and to drop her off at the following address. The toxin would wear off before she got home. Sydney even gave her cab fare. She's be fine.

Sydney pulled out her compact mirror and straightened her blond wig. She never did as good a job disguising herself as Marshal had, but without him at her disposal, she'd had to make due.

There would be no next gen gadgetry on this mission, only an audio/video scrambler tucked into the front of her bra, a mini lock pick kit stuffed in her shoe and a laser torch strapped to her thigh. From the specs she'd found, the torch would be plenty powerful enough to cut through the mid quality steel of the safe.

Sydney walked into the club more confidently than she felt, her hips swaying suggestively as she walked, keeping her mind on the job and not on what would happen if something should go wrong. Perhaps it was silly, but she felt even more alone without Dixon, or Marshal, or her father talking in her ear, leading her through the mission. For a second the thought she'd be even be grateful to hear Sloane's voice echo through her comm., but quickly dismissed the notion as ludicrous.

Sydney assessed the club as she made her way to the kitchen. A classy place, expensive, obviously. A pleasant sounding male vocalist sang along with a large band, cranking out a bluesy rendition of an old Otis Redding tune. Despite its reputable appearance and reputation, Sydney saw at least 15 well known members of the Yakuza Japanese mafia conducting business in a shadowy corner of the club. She was positive she'd spot more delinquent dealings if she took the time to search them out, but she just wanted to conduct her own business and go. She wasn't saving the world tonight. Just her world, that's all.

Sydney pushed open the door of the kitchen and pulled Samantha's key card out of her cleavage, signing herself in. Samantha might as well get paid for Sydney's escapade. From the blueprints she's managed to locate, the safe with the disk this so called "Messenger" was located in the owner's office on the main floor. She'd be in and out in 10 minutes.

Sydney sauntered by a few other waitresses and past the chef's, pushing by boxes and scattered silverware. Turning a corner, she reached into her bra, finding the audio/video jammer and flicking the switch. She couldn't afford to leave the video down for long, she'd hoped only for a minute's time to get in and out before turning the signal back on, hoping security attributed it to a glitch in the system.

Sydney quickly swept past several doors, passing broom closets and storage facilities. She finally came to the owner's suite. The owner, she had been pleased to see, was being pleasantly distracted by a female companion out on the club floor. Everything was falling into place more easily than she expected and it was making Sydney more than a little nervous.

She took out the lock pick from her shoe and gained access to the room with a few second's work. Peering around the room, even if she hadn't known which wall the safe was in, it would have been easy enough to figure out. You don't line 3 out of the 4 walls with expensive paintings only to stick a framed print on the fourth. Sydney lifted the large print from its place and almost staggered back when she saw the safe.

Obviously, the Yakuza had made some upgrades recently.

Sydney ran her fingers over the brushed steel exterior of the Maxforce model STX safe, its melded alloyed steel door and sides between 5-7 inches thick and thus making her laser torch completely useless. Even if she had brought a combination decryption device (which she hadn't), she still couldn't get access to the safe: it had no combination lock. It only opened if she could get access to not one, but two three-pronged activation keys. She couldn't even begin to guess who was in possession of the keys, let alone carry out her mission tonight.

But there wasn't time to even think, she needed to get back and activate the security camera again before someone was sent down to secure the more vulnerable areas of the club. She placed the print back over the safe and quickly exited the suite, locking the door behind her. She made her way back to the kitchen and brought the security back online with a flick of a switch. Sydney's mind reeled and she leaned against the tiled wall of the kitchen, her failure so complete and devastating she found herself floundering in hopelessness. She'd been so focused in completing the mission that when she was presented with what she mistook as up to date intel, she hadn't questioned it, she only wanted it done. She found herself close to tears in frustration.

"Hey, hey you! New girl!"

A severe looking woman in a high bun yelled shrilly, jostling several busboys aside and was shoving a drink into Sydney's hand before she realized the woman was talking to her.

"I don't care what you problem is, but everyone has to work around here. Take this to the piano player; he's finishing up his solo song in a minute. Get the lead out, girl!" Sydney half expected the woman to slap her on the ass to get her going, but she didn't, and Sydney did her best to sound contrite as the woman angrily stormed away.

_Fine. Playing waitress wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen tonight. Serve a few drinks, find out who has the keys, make a few quick bucks. Tonight might not be a total wash after all._

Sydney picked up a nearby tray and balanced the glass on it. She weaved through the kitchen staff, and nearing the door back to the club caught the notes of a distantly familiar song. She paused, her heart suddenly accelerating.

_Where did she know this song from?_ Not knowing quite why the strains of the melody caused a feeling of unease, but she brushed it off and threw open the kitchen doors into the smoky club.

She felt eyes on her and she pressed forward past the patrons to the stage, the feeling of dread growing stronger as she neared. Her breathing quickened as she approached the pianist.

_"I guess I'll never see the light…"_

The piano player's voice crooned, low and warm. Sydney's pace slowed and as she approached the piano, realization slamming into her like a bullet. _Paris. Oh, goddamn it…_

_"I get the blues most every night…"_

Sark's eyes locked on hers, mocking in their triumph, as he sang the last lyric of the song she'd serenaded him with the first time they'd ever met.

_"Since I fell…for you…"_

The applause thundered around them, the audience clearly appreciative of Sark's song stylings. He leaned into the microphone after the clapping died down.

"Please excuse me for a few minutes while I take a short break," he said in a New York tinged American accent. "And in the meanwhile, please tip the lovely waitresses." He winked at Sydney and took up the drink she had brought him, sipping it while she considered the infinite ways she'd like to torture his cocky British ass.

"Did you like the song selection, Sydney?" Sark asked innocently, dropping his accent. "I am a sucker for nostalgia. My singing voice isn't quite as pleasant as yours, but when the club's regular singer and piano player calls out unexpectedly, they'll let just about anybody up here. The soda in my drink is flat, by the way." He shook his drink at her. Sydney could barely contain the urge to throw the tray in his face, but resisted beautifully. Her anger was so intense she fought to find the words to express them. Sark took this momentary silence to reach into his tuxedo pocket.

"Far be it for me not to tip such wonderful service," he casually added, and placed a single two-pronged key onto her tray.

Sydney finally found her voice and sputtered, "How did you…where did you get…what…" She stopped, closed her eyes and put her free hand to her temple, as if rubbing a headache away. She collected herself before she spoke, careful to keep the anger checked while in front of so many people.

"Where did you get that?" His flippancy was giving her a splitting headache. She had the childish urge to kick him in the shins.

Sark shrugged noncommittally. "Around," he gestured. He waited; clearly she had more to say.

"Surely you know you can't get in with only one key." She looked at him expectantly. She half hoped he hadn't known that. He held up a finger and dug back into his pocket, pulling out the other safe key. She made a move to snatch it but it lunged back, palming it.

"Sydney, we shouldn't be waving these things around. The people I stole them from are still in the building. You get that one, I get this one and we do this like we're supposed to. No headbutting this time." Despite her anger, Sydney smirked.

"How hot did the car get before you woke up?"

"Hot enough that I'll be sending you a dry cleaning bill for all the sweat stains."

"I thought the British didn't sweat."

"They do when their luxury automobile's interior is the temperature of the seventh circle of hell."

"Seventh circle of hell? How appropriate for you," Sydney deadpanned.

Sark rolled his eyes, ignoring her comment. "Let's go."

They followed her earlier path back to the kitchens; their movements to the back hallways went mostly unnoticed by the bustling wait staff and cooks. Sydney reached into her bra for the video scrambler and flicked its switch, which produced a mildly amusing lecherous look from Sark.

"Don't!" she warned, "…start with all _that_ right now." She held up a finger threateningly. She hadn't the time to imbed this in his mind properly, but if he knew what was good for him, he's quit pissing around. By the time she'd reached down and retrieved the lock pick from her shoe, she stood up to find him already working the door of the owner's suite open. He opened it and swept inside, quickly pulling down the framed print from in front of the safe. He pulled out his key and placed it in the designated slot. Sydney followed him, putting her key in next. Sark shrugged at her as if to say, "why not?" and Sydney nodded, and the two turned their keys together.

The safe opened without any obvious alarms sounding and Sydney took that as a good sign, and quickly rifled through its contents. Shoving aside papers, blueprints, manila folders, and some test tubes filled with a dubious looking green liquid, she found one minidisk that she quickly palmed.

She nodded her head at Sark and he shut the safe and placed the print back in its rightful place. They locked the door behind them and winded through the hallways back to the kitchen. Sydney reached back down into her dress and put the security systems back on. She peered around the corner to the kitchen, gauging whether she could go back the way she came to make a fast exit when she felt the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of her head.

"It seems," Sark spoke softly, "this is the only way you'll take me seriously." Sydney lifted her hands above her head and turned around slowly.

"Sark, this isn't the time for games," Sydney said, speaking more calm than she felt. "I thought you wanted to help." Somewhere in the building, an alarm sounded. "Seriously, can we fight this out once we get out of here?"

"No," Sark replied calmly. The alarms were growing louder now, and Sydney thought she could hear the footfalls of people running over the din of kitchen noise. "We settle this right now. I'm a part of this, whether you like it or not."

"Fine," Sydney spat defiantly. "We settle this now." Her fist was a blur, cutting through the air hard and fast. Sark deflected her initial blow, but she proved too fast for him, and the gun went souring through the air. Sydney made a grab for it and succeeded in getting its possession, but the footsteps were louder now, very close, coming up behind Sydney. In a few seconds they would be on them and they'd both be caught. They had no choice. Sydney and Sark locked eyes, hers narrowed and livid, his anxious and pleading.

In an instant she was all over him. She smashed her lips against his; all nipping teeth, swirling tongue, soft lips. He was struck dumb at the quickness her diversion and bruising force of her attack he hardly had time to respond before the security rounded the corner. He felt her hand holding the gun slipping behind him, feeling her way down the small of his back, tucking the weapon in between the hollow between his spine and the band of his boxer briefs. Her lips were playing the part beautifully, but her eyes were wide open and furious. His lips curled into a smirk behind the kiss she forced on him.

Sark saw the Yukuza round the corner behind Sydney, and felt that he needed to sell the illusion that the two of them were simply two coworkers caught in an intimate moment. His hand slid across Sydney's sequined-covered ass and she quickly bit his lip, but did not slap it away.

_What a professional_, Sark mused to himself.

"Hey! Hey you!" Sark quickly licked his lip of blood and looked over Sydney's shoulder as she whipped around herself, looking convincingly embarrassed. He felt her lipstick smear on his lips. She stomped on his foot as she spun around. Sydney felt a satisfying crunch under her heel.

Five Yukuza crowded the hallway, their weapons drawn.

"Didn't you hear the fire alarm? Get out of here," a large, bald Mafioso growled at them. Sydney's eyes widened in innocent alarm.

"I'm so sorry…we'll go…thank you…"

Sark made apologetic gestures and walked forward to wade through the armed men. He reached his hand back, waiting for Sydney to take it. She didn't disappoint him. She slipped her hand in his and they walked past the Yukuza and through the kitchen, joining the crowd of employees exiting the building.

"I think you might have broken my toe," Sark said under his breath. As soon as they had gotten outside, Sydney dropped his hand like a hot stone.

"That's what I was going for. You're lucky I didn't break something else," Sydney retorted crossly. She walked through the alley briskly, leaving the hobbling Sark in her wake. She walked to the street and threw her hand up to hale a cab.

"Sydney! Sydney wait," Sark called. She kept her face to the street, ignoring his plea. A cab zoomed by her, disregarding her waving arm. She threw up her hands in disgust and walked into the street after it passed, shouting obscenities after the retreating vehicle. Sark caught up with her in the middle of the street as she stood illuminated beneath a dying streetlight, her back turned resolutely to him.

"Why can't you just accept you can't do this without me?" Sark asked exasperatingly. "This charade is ridiculous. You're just being this way out of spite. If you really cared about getting Irina back, you wouldn't care how it got done."

Sydney turned around to face him, her long blonde wig smacking Sark in the face. Her face was alight with fury, but her eyes betrayed her by being filled with tears. She jabbed him in the chest with a long fingernail, annunciating each point with another painful poke.

"_How_ can you question your involvement in this matter when you are _consistently_ disregarding that there is more than one person's life at stake here?" Jab, Jab. "That is my _father_ out there somewhere being tortured, in addition to my mother, a fact to which you have seemed habitually forget." Jab. "How could I possibly trust _you_ to do what's right when it comes down to the line? As long _your_ interests are met, how do I know you won't cut and run? How could you ever think I would put my life, and my parent's life, my _trust_, in the hands of a psychopath?" Jab, jab, jab. Her emotional outburst had robbed Sydney of breath and she paused, letting her words sink in.

Sark took her moment's hesitation to put a hand to his chest, shielding it from her incessant poking. She was just so angry…it was annoyingly attractive.

"First of all, I'm not a psychopath," he stated calmly. He spoke evenly and civilly, despite her accusations and insults. She had wanted to make him angry, as angry as she felt. Angry enough to leave her the hell alone, angry enough to hit back. At least when she was fighting, she was doing something, making someone hurt as much as she was hurting. She thought that she could count on Sark out of anyone to react to her antagonistic advances, distract her from it all. But for all her heated words he only grew more cool and collected, as if he fed on the fury, making him stronger.

"I get paid to do a job. You do the same kind of job, only you get paid a government salary, which I find to be insultingly inadequate. Personally I feel your talents could be bought for a much higher price, I've always thought you were incredible in that respect."

He ticked off his reasons on his fingers. "Secondly, I haven't forgotten Jack is in danger too. And while I harbor no ill will toward him, I wouldn't exactly lay my life on the line for him. You know my main focus is your mother, I make no apologies for that."

He ticked off a third finger. Sydney was looking at his hand when an absurdly inappropriate recognition for their particular situation flitted across her brain. She admired his hands; large and masculine, with long and slender fingers.

_They look like hands a craftsmen would have, a skilled carpenter or an artist. Not the hands of a cold-blooded killer. How many people had he killed with them? How many women had he seduced with those two perfect hands?_

Sydney shook her head, clearing her head of Sark's hands and women.

"…and finally, when, in all our illustrious history together, have you known me to fail at anything I set out to do?" Sark questioned. His eyes were mocking, daring her to think of one instance in which he'd failed.

_He was so maddeningly cocky, a boy that was never denied anything, never been told "no". Except, of course, by me…_

"You could never get me," she countered smartly, and a bit of a smile creeping into her voice. "To work for you, or to cater to you in any other sordid manner I'm sure you've considered."

Despite himself, he blushed slightly. He knew she couldn't see it under the dim streetlight, but he nevertheless betrayed his embarrassment by looking at his feet, putting one hand behind his neck, and laughing low in his throat despite himself.

"Your arrogance, Miss Bristow, while warranted in most areas, will be your ultimate downfall."

"Funny. I'd say the same about you."

The streetlight that had been threatening to die suddenly shattered, showering the two of them with glass. A half second later Sydney felt a bullet whiz by her ear. Shouts were coming from the club, following by rapid footfalls of stampeding Yukuza.

They ran.

Sark reached back to the gun wedged in the small of his back and tossed it to Sydney. She couldn't risk carrying the disk in her hand as they ran. She tossed the disk to Sark and he quickly pocketed it. He ran ahead, trusting her to follow, crunching glass underfoot as they fled. Their footsteps reverberated down the empty back alleys, keeping in time with the pounding of blood in their ears, with the thwack of gunfire hitting brick.

They rounded a corner and met with a chain link fence. They made quick work of it, shimmying up the metal wall and dropping hard onto the concrete below. Sark reach inside his tuxedo and pulled out his other gun out of his shoulder holster and threw it to Sydney. She looked confused, but he was already up and running.

Sydney turned on her heels and pointed both guns back toward they came, raining a torrent of bullets on the oncoming Mafioso. She rounded the corner to find Sark hotwiring a Ducati Monster motorcycle. He had somehow steered them to the parking lot of a fancy nightclub and was making quick work of starting the closest vehicle.

Sydney leaned around the corner and squeezed off a few more shots. They didn't have much time.

"You couldn't have picked a vehicle that had, oh, I don't know, sides and a roof?" Sydney shouted over the din. "Putting as much metal between me and 5 sets of automatic weapons would have been a priority if I was hotwiring a vehicle." She leaned back around the corner and polish off a few more shots. She heard a grunt of pain and the thump of someone falling.

"We need to put distance between them and us, and quickly. Until they get transport as well, that is. If you see a tank anywhere, feel free to hotwire it yourself. But in the meanwhile, shut it and get on." Sydney heard the roar of the motorcycle's engine coming to life and ran to the bike. She fired off a few last shots behind her and ran.

Sark revved the motorcycle and she quickly straddled the motorcycle, sitting behind him. She slipped one gun back into his shoulder holster to grab his middle for balance, using her other hand to shoot at the oncoming enemy attack. He revved up again and they took off. They had almost turned the corner out of the parking lot when Sydney felt a searing heat burn through the shoulder as a bullet grazed a chunk off her shoulder, causing her to drop the gun as they sped down the street. She cried out and her body was thrown against Sark's, and she gripped around his stomach tighter with her left hand, her right shoulder sagging into his back.

Sark heard Sydney's exclamation of pain, and quickly felt the warm blood seeping through his jacket, soaking through to his own skin.

"Sydney! Are you alright?" he yelled into the wind. The blood was running in streams behind her and she bit down in her lip to divert the pain.

"I'm fine. Drive!" she yelled in his ear. She looked behind her. He'd gotten them away. She reached down Sark's thigh, feeling the disk in his pocket. Relief washed over her, numbing the pain in her shoulder, if only slightly. Sark tried to look over his shoulder, to make sure she was alright, but the alleys were narrow. He wouldn't do her any good flipping the motorcycle over in addition to getting her shot.

And yet…it shouldn't have crept into his mind how she was leaning on him now, holding on to him, as if she depended on him. Shouldn't have mattered her dress was riding up as she straddled the vibrating motorcycle. She was bleeding all over him and the only thing he could feel was her hand burning warm through his shirt, her head leaning against his back as she cradled her wounded arm.

_Just drive. Don't think. Keep driving. Don't stop._

"Hold on, Sydney."

She did, and the two of them sped off into the night, leaving blood and dust in their wake.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Two

1. "Love Knows How To Fight", M. Craft. **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark talk about Sakr's involvement in finding Sydney's parents, Sydney knocks him out.

Lyrics: I can't find the lyrics to this anywhere, but trust me, it's awesome and you should Dl it immediately.

2. "Try a Little Tenderness", Michael Buble. **Listen to when:** Sydney enters the club.

Lyrics: _It's not just sentimental  
She has her grief  
And her care  
But a word  
So soft and gentle  
Makes it easier  
To bear_

3. "Since I Fell For You", Lenny Welch. **Listen to when:** Sydney brings the drink out to the piano player and realizes its Sark.

Lyrics: _Guess I'll never see the light  
I get the blues most every night  
Since I fell for you_

4. "Light Switch", Jaime Wyatt. **Listen to when:** Sark follows Sydney underneath the streetlight and they argue.

Lyrics: _You've been a burden all at once  
Sometimes I can't find the light switch  
Sometimes I'd rather dwell in the darkness  
Sometimes I'm better off alone  
Sometimes has become a home_

5. "Speed", Bond. **Listen to when:** The streetlight breaks over Sydney and Sark and they run away from the Japanese mob, Sark hotwires the Ducati Monster Motorcycle, Sydney gets shot, but they get away.

Lyrics: instrumental

Bonus! "Since I Fell for You", Jennifer Garner"

Lyrics: _Guess I'll never see the light  
I get the blues most every night  
Since I fell for you_


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sarks' past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonimity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiance, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Chapter Three! Huzzah!! In which information about Sark's relationship with Irina is revealed and cool explosions take place. **Please check out the past chapters after the cut, which have been updated with songs to create the ultimate Sarkney extravaganza!**

* * *

New York flew by them in a blur of lights and sound. The Ducati Monster sliced through the night effortlessly, a streak of black against the inky darkness of the balmy city backdrop. They'd been traveling for twenty minutes now, the Yukuza long since left behind. The pair on the motorcycle doubled back, making sure they'd lost them, but they had cut out on the Japanese mafia quickly enough to shake the mob. Sark pulled up to a stoplight and a deserted intersection and slowed down, putting his non-injured foot down to steady the bike. He could finally turn around and see the damage made of Sydney's shoulder.

A sizable chunk had been taken out of the top of her shoulder, coating her arm in a sleeve of blood. A flesh wound, no permanent or extensive damage, but messy and undeniably painful. Her face was a little pale, but her expression betrayed no sign of pain. Sark wondered is she put up the brave front for his sake, or for her own.

Sark took off his tuxedo jacket and ripped off a sleeve, dropping the remains of the garment on the street. He handed it to her and she pressed the piece of fabric to her wound.

"Do you need to go to a hospital?" Sark asked, his voice almost polite. He knew she would say no, but at least he could say he gave her the option. She glared at him.

"It's a flesh wound. I'll live," she muttered. A moment's silence fell between them, and Sydney felt an awkwardness now they were out of the moment, out of the mission. The adrenaline was slowing down, leaving only the gritty reality of the night's events to replay in her head. She couldn't deny Sark's helpfulness in her success tonight. When it came down to the wire, her gut instinct had been to trust him and the bastard had come through.

She resented him passionately for that.

And here they were, idling at a deserted streetlight, bleeding and broken. But alive.

"Where are we going?" she asked, clearly disgruntled.

"I rent a small apartment uptown for when I find myself having to conduct business in the area. Unless you have a better idea, I was planning on going there."

Sydney didn't have a better plan. The truth was she hadn't thought this far ahead in terms of a backup plan. She had only considered the mission itself, its ending result, which she had ended up being unprepared for. She so angry with herself for assuming everything would be so easy. She hated that she'd been so blinded in her concern for her parents she had forgotten the most basic of contingences.

"That's fine," she whispered. She felt dizzy with disappointment and humiliation. Or maybe it was the blood loss. She glanced down at the torn jacket on the street.

"Is that Armani?"

"It was. There is going to be a very well dressed homeless person with one very cold arm."

"…was that a joke?"

"It very well may have been." He paused, and then he spoke again, his voice losing its slight joviality. "Will you be alright until we get there?"

Sydney tied the sleeve up over her shoulder, curtailing the flow of blood. The light turned green. She put a hand around Sark's abdomen. It was strange, despite everything she knew about this man; in the back of her mind she knew this wasn't all just some game to him. There wasn't anything she could pinpoint to validate ridiculous notion. When it came to the cocky Brit, Sydney had always thought that behind every one of Sark's smiles his teeth were predatorily bared; behind his every touch were hands that killed.

And yet, despite all the violent history they shared, despite the bloodshed and bullets, despite Lauren and Vaughn and Alison…there was her mother. The Messenger had been right; Irina was the one thing Sark couldn't stand to lose. For what reason exactly, she wasn't sure. For two people who supposedly had no loyalties, Sark and her mother had some kind of kinship and while its nature remained a mystery to Sydney, it was undeniable and strong.

She could trust that.

"I'll be alright."

"Hold on," Sark warned automatically. Sydney reached up and pulled off the long blond wig she'd been wearing and tossed it next to the jacket as they sped away, shedding the remnants of her failure one piece at a time.

Sark pulled the motorcycle in the back alley of a sprawling gothic monstrosity of a building. Out of place in modern New York, the structure was a bastion of old world beauty that would serve as the perfect setting for tales of gypsy kings and Russian czars. He stopped briefly to take a remote lock out of his pocket and pressed it, and a large garage door materialized from the seemingly flat stone wall. He slowly wheeled the bike inside and closed the door behind him.

Sydney got up from the motorcycle and looked around, reluctantly in awe of the Sark's impressive collection of vehicles: a crimson Jaguar XK, a black Porsche 911, and a sleek silver 2006 Aston Martin. He made no smug commentary about the collection, as Sydney has expected him to; he merely ran a hand along the smooth lines of the Aston Martin's hood as he passed by on his way to her.

He walked past her to the far wall of the garage and pressed a button on the wall. After a few seconds, the wall opened up to reveal the grates of an elevator. He stood inside, waiting for her. She followed him into the elevator and Sark promptly reached around her to close the grate and pressed the button to start their ascent.

"When this used to be a hotel, John Jacob Astor had them build a separate elevator going from his garage to his suite so he didn't have to mingle with the hotel's less affluent boarders," Sark stated. Sydney thought he sounded like a pompous tour guide. "Good thing for us though. I couldn't take you in the main elevators like that. You look dreadful." He was only half kidding she knew; if she looked even half as bad as Sark did they would raise suspicion immediately upon their entrance to the apartment building.

"You have the old apartment of John Jacob Astor?" Sydney asked dubiously. She shouldn't be surprised, he did have an excess of $800 million at his disposal, or whatever was left after the Covenant had had their way with it.

Sark's continued work in espionage always bothered Sydney. Why continue to earn a few million dollars when you inherit the Romanov inheritance? She had attributed it to some insatiable sadistic need he could never quite quench with his many millions. He hadn't proven anything concrete to make her think otherwise, so she wasn't ready to dismiss this theory. But there was something there, something else, beyond his proclivity to cruelty that Sydney couldn't quite see.

_Not yet, anyhow._

"I get by," Sark responded neutrally. The floors flew by quickly, finally bringing them to the topmost floor.

"I'll bet you do," Sydney muttered. The grates opened and Sydney was simply blown away. The "small apartment" Sark had mentioned took up the entire top floor of the old hotel, a sprawling penthouse with one entire wall of made of glass to take in the spectacular New York skyline. Sydney was momentarily speechless.

"It's amazing," Sydney stated simply. She couldn't even bring herself to inject any sarcasm into the statement; it truly was a remarkable place.

"I'm glad you're pleased," Sark answered, slightly surprised. A genuine grin spread across his face. He was glad her back was facing him. He hadn't expected anything of his to meet Sydney Bristow's expectations. He didn't suppose she would be someone who'd be impressed with such materialistic things like apartments and money.

_But then again, it really is a spectacular view…_

Sydney spent another moment gazing out at the jewel bright city and turned around, passing by Sark. The furnishings were understated and classic; Sydney had expected Sark to be more ostentatious when it came to showcasing his wealth. Black marble countertops and fireplace mantles, plush caramel-colored carpet, black leather couches and armchairs. A few pieces of art lined the walls; including what Sydney could only guess was a real Caravaggio.

Sark followed her with his eyes, watching her pace through the penthouse. She turned at the bathroom, facing him, but looking someplace over his right shoulder.

"I think I need stitches."

Sark acquiesced with a nod. Sydney turned and walked into the bathroom and Sark followed. Sydney sat on the outside of the large marble hot tub and watched as Sark unloaded his pockets. Wallet, cell phone, keys. So many things about him were so normal. And then came the one Walther Sydney had slipped back into his shoulder holster, the two-pronged safe key, and from a pocket a small blueprint of the safe itself.

"The first aid kit is in the bedroom," Sark said. "I'll be right back." She nodded. She peered out of the bathroom door after he left, making sure he hadn't turned back around. She deftly plucked Sark's wallet from the counter, scanning its contents.

Fake passport and fake driver's license for one Rupert Leland, age 30.

_He couldn't be a day older than 25._

She found several forms of currency: lire, yen, euros, dollars. She rifled through the cash quickly, stuffing it back into the billfold.

_A rich scam artist, nothing I didn't know already_.

She pulled out the driver's license and a small square of paper fell out. Curious, Sydney picked it up from the floor. It was a photograph, one that had been through some hard times from the look of it. Creases lined its surface, marring the quality of the photo. The edges were torn and yellowing, and Sydney furrowed her brow, trying to make out the image.

Clearly it was a dark haired woman sitting next to a tow-headed child, playing with blocks. She leaned forward, turning the photograph to the light. It was a boy, probably around the age of six or seven age range. The child's wheat blond hair stood up messily, as if the woman in the picture had just ruffled it. The woman was dark-haired and regal, with a Mona Lisa smile that betrayed a bit of mischief, despite the decrepit quality of the photograph. Goosebumps crawled up her skin as the stared at the picture, that knowing smile. The blocks, those familiar building blocks, angular and stacked in a tower formation made Sydney's blood run cold. It couldn't have been more chillingly obvious who the pair in the photo were.

Her mother and Sark, playing with the Project Christmas blocks. Sydney put a hand to her mouth, horrified.

_How could I not know? How could I not know that it went this far? Why…_

She heard Sark's feet padding toward her, and Sydney quickly stuffed the photograph back into the wallet and threw it onto the counter before Sark poked his head through the door. In addition to the first aid kit, he had brought fresh towels and a change of clothes.

"I don't really keep women's clothes handy, but the pants have a drawstring, they should suffice for now," Sark told her, placing the towels and clothes on the counter next to his things. He picked the first aid kit up and sat next to her on the tub ledge, and Sydney turned her head away from him. She couldn't look at him, her face would betray her in a second.

Bizarre thoughts and scenarios blazed through her mind as she lowered the shoulder strap of her cocktail dress, exposing her wound for Sark to stitch.

_So all that time I was without a mother, the whole time I thought my mother was dead, she was playing mother to __**him**_. _Irina had two young daughters out there in the world, both going through life motherless, and there she was; imprinting her agenda on Sark's young psyche, starting his spiral of hate and violence, not even giving him a choice…like my own father had never given me a choice. Oh, Mom…_

Sark worked methodically on her shoulder, disinfecting the equipment, cleaning out the wound. Her head was turned defiantly the other way, and while Sark expected a certain amount of surliness from Sydney, this continued silence bothered him.

"Do you want a local anesthetic?" he asked her. She shook her head, still looking the other way. Tears were welling in her eyes now, threatening to break the dam of resolve she had been trying to establish since Sark fell back into her life.

Sark rolled his eyes. He was getting very irritated.

"Fine then," he said. He took out the medical thread and began stitching Sydney up, not surprised she didn't even flinch. He let a few minutes passed as he continued

"Would it make any difference if I told you that the motorcycle probably wasn't the best idea?" Sark asked lightly. He tied the end of the stitches in a medical knot. He waited for an answer, but none came. Sark furrowed his brow, clearly frustrated at Sydney's lack of response. He'd even take an insult over the reverberating silence filling the room.

"Fine, if that's the way you want to be. I'll leave you to get cleaned up. The master bedroom has clean sheets, you can stay in there," he said in a clipped tone. "I'll be in the spare bedroom if you need anything." He turned and quickly exited the master bathroom, leaving Sydney alone with her thoughts.

Sark walked quickly to the spare bathroom, not exactly slamming the door shut, but not closing it quietly either. She was being so belligerently insufferable.

_She ought to be thankful I saved her ass back there, she would have had to do days of reconnaissance to find who had those keys and to get back into the club. Granted, she got shot in the process but it was only a flesh wound._

He stripped off his bloody and dusty clothes, throwing them forcefully into the trash. He turned the shower on, not bothering to check the temperature as he stepped in, anxious to clean the filth of the night off his skin. The water ran cold, but Sark didn't bother turning the dial. His skin, the night outside, and his temper were hot. The cool water cascaded over him as he lathered up the soap and scrubbed it vigorously over his body, forming a tirade in his head of what to say to her when he got out of the shower.

A few feet from Sark, Sydney was sitting on the shower floor, staring into nothingness as the scalding hot water pelted down on her from the showerhead. Knees drawn up to her chest, she held her head in her hands, the thoughts in her head taking on minds of their own. She had thought, at the very worst, her mother and Sark had been lovers. Sydney searched within herself. Had she ever truly believed that?

_No. There was always something else. Something deeper, something I never wanted to see, didn't let myself see. He had been so young…_

She let the shower wash all the tears away, angry at herself she'd let them appear at all.

Sark threw the shower curtain open, barely drying himself off enough to pull on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black wife beater. He threw open the bathroom door, purposely walking toward the master bedroom. He pushed the door open, not caring if she was decent or not. She was sitting on the bed, her back to him, staring out the floor to ceiling glass window. She looked so small in his clothes; the shorts rolled up at her slender waist, his tee-shirt several sizes too large. He paused; momentarily caught up in the imaginary vulnerability he'd cloaked her after seeing her in his too-big-for-her clothing.

_Who am I kidding, this is Sydney Bristow. I'll be lucky if she doesn't kick me in the face for questioning her. Don't be such a ponce. Do it._

"Look Sydney, I'm sorry you're so _put off_ by all this hospitality I am extending to you, but I will not put up with your surliness any longer. I know you're upset about the whole thing, but understand I am here to help, and pushing me away isn't going to make me go away. I'm in this; whether you like it or not, so I suggest you get used it right now, lest we start having a serious problem here."

He waited for the backlash, but it didn't come. Instead, she turned around to face him, her face sadly accusatory and her eyes watery, with something in her hands. His wallet.

Sark stood frozen in place, the flush of anger vanishing from his cheeks in an instant. His expression was no longer perturbed indignation. For one moment, Sydney read a mixture of shock, sadness, and what might have been fear behind his steely blue eyes. But as quickly as it had surfaced, it was gone, locked behind an impenetrable wall of self preservation.

"You rifled through my things," he stated quietly. He paused. "I suppose I would have done the same thing," he concluded in the same quiet voice. It unnerved Sydney; she would have preferred if he had gotten violent. She could at least understand that from Sark. This silence, this quiet Sark could only mean the picture was real.

Sydney held up the battered photo. "Is this you and my mother?" she asked, already knowing the answer. He nodded in confirmation. Sydney dropped the photo back into her lap and turned to the window again.

"This isn't going to be simple, is it?" she asked, more to herself than to Sark. She continued staring at the skyline, as if the twinkling lights had the answers to all her questions. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She resisted the urge to turn around as she posed the one question she wasn't sure she wanted the answer to. She hoped, prayed it wasn't true, but with her mother…she had to know.

"Please tell me we aren't related," she spoke, more a statement than an actual question. She heard Sark force out a small laugh.

"No Sydney, you and I are not related in any way, shape or form. I daresay our relationship is a bit incestuous as it is, considering our past partners. And for your peace of mind," he pressed on, "Irina and I have never been lovers. While biologically we no connection, it would still be a bit too Oedipal for my own personal taste."

"Thank God for small favors", Sydney muttered, taking in Sark's words.

"At least now you and I will be able to carry on our yearly trysts without worry of producing web-footed children," he answered humorlessly.

"I don't feel much like joking right now," Sydney replied wearily. She finally turned to him, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach deepening as she saw the stricken look on Sark's face. He stepped closer to the bed, looking at the worn photograph.

"This was taken just before she sent me off to boarding school," Sark explained, "after I had spent the summer at a special camp for 'gifted youngsters'. You out of anyone should recognize those building blocks."

Sydney nodded. "Project Christmas."

"The very same", Sark replied resignedly.

This was just all too much for Sydney. She couldn't comprehend it all. Irina playing mother to Sark while she went her whole life believing Laura was dead. He got the best years of her mother's life, knowing what it was like to have a mother. It was not his fault he got to know her and she didn't. Sydney knew this and realized he was just as much a victim of Project Christmas and her parents' treachery as much as she had been, but she didn't care. It was selfish and sad, but she knew she could never forgive Sark for this.

_Never._

"Do you understand why I can't let this go now?" His voice was somewhere in between pleading to her and stating a quiet fact. It scared her, this unabashed desperation in Sark.

_Sure he'd beg, when his own life was at stake. He'd plead when his money was in danger. But why now? Why did he have to do this to her now?_

"When I was six years old I could only stand by and watch my real mother be buried." His round, cobalt eyes were wide with a childlike earnest, trying to make her understand. "I'll be damned if I am going to stand by and watch it happen all over again with Irina."

Sydney looked down at her hands. "I think I want to be alone right now."

Sark stared at her bowed head. "If that's what you want."

He turned and quietly padded out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He trudged to the living room and threw himself onto black leather couch, careful not to land on the computer disk in his pocket. He hadn't intended on telling her the truth about him and Irina. There hadn't been any harm letting her live under the illusion that the two of them had been lovers.

But now she knew. He had left out some things, of course, but she knew the basic gist of things. He laid down and rubbed his tired eyes. They stung with fatigue after a long day of thankless work. And yet, after he rubbed his eyes, they still stung.

And then he saw it.

Orange smoke billowing into the room from near the front door.

_Tear gas._

"Sydney!" Sark yelled, jumping up from the couch and running to the bedroom. He threw the door open just as the entire glass wall exploded.

Ziplines rained down from the roof and on each a men in all black fatigues and masks kicked in the spider webbed glass. Sydney reacted immediately, sending a roundhouse kick into the knees of the first interloper, bringing him down like a wounded animal. Sark dropped to his knees in a combat rolled to the closet, where with a turn of a secret compartment, an armory waited. He heard Sydney grunt, countering the attacks of the assailants and he reached into the compartment and closed his hands over two handguns.

He popped up to his knees, weapons drawn.

"Sydney!"

She must have known what he was doing, because without even looking in his direction she dropped to the floor, covering her head as bullets pounded into their attackers, blood spattering her hair. She cut her knees on the broken glass as the gunfire blazed feet from her face. Suddenly it stopped, and she uncovered her face, finding the bodies of their assailants artlessly piled around her, all dead.

"Get up!" Sark yelled, tossing the guns on the bed. He reached back in the closet, pulling out clips of ammunition. Sydney quickly grabbed them, shoving the ammunition in her pockets. She took off into the foyer. Sark was right behind, loading a clip into his glock as he ran.

She slapped the button for the elevator and the doors materialized out of the wall. She pulled the grate aside, stepping inside and hitting the button for the garage. Sark was right behind her, running into the elevator. And then, he stopped and his eyes went wide.

"Wait!" He stuck his hand in between the closing doors, stopping the descent of the elevator. Sydney's eyes went wide with disbelief.

"What!?" She yelled incredulously. She didn't have time to ask him what he was doing because he was already racing back into the war torn apartment. He weaved his way back to the bedroom, ignoring the corpses littering the floor. He went right to the bed and scooped up the torn photograph of him and Irina and stuffed it in his pocket. Only that wasn't the only piece of paper on the blood-splattered sheets.

A red envelope sat unassumingly next to the photograph. Sark was momentarily stunned. He heard Sydney call his name in the distance, but he could scarcely hear her calls over the roaring of blood in his ears.

_There was no way that was here before…no way we could have missed it, even during the fray…had it only been dropped in the time it took to run to the elevator…_

Sydney's voice rang out again and Sark shook his head. He picked up the envelope and took off in a sprint. Sydney was standing with her back against one of the elevator doors and a foot against the other, keeping them open.

"Come on!" she shouted. Sark ran to the elevator, sliding in like a baseball player running home. Sydney pulled herself back into the elevator, letting the door slam behind her. She pulled the grates across.

"What was so important you had to go back?" Sydney asked breathlessly. She watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture. Sydney didn't know what to say. Before she could think of something to say Sark held up a single finger, as if say "that's not all!" He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a scarlet envelope.

"What the hell…" Sydney trailed off. She took the envelope in her hands. "Where did you find this?"

"On the bed, next to the picture," he answered.

"But it wasn't there before we ran to the elevator," Sydney countered.

"It wasn't," Sark agreed.

The elevator started its descent to the garage and Sydney continued staring at the envelope, her face a mask of bewilderment.

"This doesn't make any sense," she mused aloud. "Why would the person who is sending these envelopes ambush us? If they want these 'tasks' done, why send someone after us? And if all they wanted was us dead, why not just go ahead and do it? Why send us on a wild goose chase?"

"Could it have been the Yukuza?" Sark asked.

"No," Sydney responded. "They weren't on to us before the op, and we lost them on the motorcycle."

They were both silent, lost in thought. The elevator rumbled in its downward journey to the garage.

"It appears that we have a third party on our hands then," Sark postulated. "Party one, The Messenger. Party two, the Yukuza. Party three, person or persons unknown who do not want us to carry out Party One's instructions."

"Someone who wants my parents dead," Sydney concluded.

"Or wants us dead," Sark added. "But then again, that could be any number of people."

"Very true," Sydney granted him. She sighed, bracing herself. "Better see what this freak show wants now." She torn the flap on the envelope and just as she could see the letter inside the elevator shuddered to a halt, throwing Sydney and Sark against the sides of the compartment. The lights flickered and an ominous clunking sound reverberated from somewhere above them.

"What the hell was that?" Sydney murmured as the emergency lights flickered on. She opened the elevator panel and picked up the phone. It was dead.

"I think we need to get out of here," Sark announced. The elevator creaked around them, the clicks and groans of the machinery, putting the senses of the two spies on high alert. Sark looked upwards.

"We'll go out the top," he said. Crouching on one knee, she linked his two hands together, motioning Sydney to put her foot in his hands. "Climb on up. I'll pass the guns up to you after." Sydney nodded and she put her guns down. She put a hand on Sark's shoulder and put her weight on his hands, hoisting herself to push aside the ceiling panel.

She was light and nimble, maneuvering herself through the small opening of panel. Sark successfully resisted the juvenile urge to look up her shorts as she lifted her leg through the hole. He caught a whiff of his own soap on her skin as she passed, felt the smoothness of her hands and legs. There was something sexy about the idea of Sydney Bristow wearing his clothes, smelling like his own skin. Even in this strange and dangerous mission, he found himself noticing the strangest things about her utterly charming. It was becoming extremely annoying that the more difficult and surly she became the more he was captivated by her. Frankly, he was more than a little disgusted with himself.

She peered down at him, holding her hand out for the weapons. He passed them up to her and then jumped up, catching the edge of the hole and pulling himself up and through. He stood up on top of the elevator and looked around. There was a steel ladder affixed to the elevator shaft running the entire length of the passage.

"Up a floor?" he asked her. She nodded.

"But you go first. No more trying to look up my shorts," she said sternly. Sark threw her contentious look.

"I was not," he answered stubbornly. But he started the climb first, closing the distance between them and the next floor up. The fell silent as they ascended the ladder, hearing the clattering of heel and hand on steel rungs.

Sydney stopped, hearing something beyond the two of them climbing the ladder.

"Sark, stop."

"What?" Sark continued climbing.

"I said stop," Sydney reached up and grabbed his ankle lightly, stopping his climb. "Listen."

Sark sighed, annoyed. There were probably more assailants swarming the building, they didn't have time to stop. But he did as he was told and paused.

And there it was. A faint, but persistent, beeping coming from below them. Coming from the elevator.

"It's a detonator. Shit!" he cursed.

"Go!" Sydney yelled. Sark climbed, pumping his legs and reaching with his arms to reach the elevator doors on the next level. Sydney was right behind him, breathing hard. He reached the doors and he planted his feet on the ladder, bracing himself as he tried to pry the doors open. He grunted in the effort, his arms straining to pry the metal doors apart. There was no way to help him; all Sydney could do was wait. The beeping was getting faster, more insistent now. Sydney looked down at the elevator, feeling sick at her helplessness in the situation.

And then the beeping stopped.

There was a loud boom as an explosive activated somewhere beneath the elevator car. It rocked on its cable and finally detached, sending the metal box plunging stories below. Sydney didn't know how far flames would go when the elevator finally hit the bottom of the shaft, but she knew she didn't want to be in it when it did.

"Sark!" she screamed. He didn't turn around but put everything he had into prying the doors apart. They flew open and he jumped up, pivoting quickly around and taking her hand, yanking her out of the elevator shaft with all his might. She flew from the ladder and fell on top of him, sending them both rolling onto the ground as a great ball of fire exploded from behind Sydney. Instinct took over and tucked her head to his chest and he covered the back of her head from underneath her as the fire licked the elevator doors.

They laid there for a few seconds, feeling the heat from the fire on their feet and legs. When the flames had subsided, Sydney looked behind her from her position on top of Sark. She put her hands on other side of Sark to lift herself up and found herself looking at fussily dressed old woman standing a few feet away in the hallway, her key out to open her apartment, staring curiously at the two of them. Sark noticed Sydney's hesitation at getting up and turned his head behind him, seeing a little old lady standing with a small dog in a handbag. Both woman and dog peered inquisitively at the pair entangled in front a flaming elevator shaft.

"I would take the stairs if I were you," Sark called out to her calmly. The blue haired old lady nodded enthusiastically and quickly jiggled her key in its lock and slammed the door behind her. Sydney lifted herself off of Sark with a grunt and dusted herself off, picking up her weapons as she waited for him to right himself.

"Why does everything have to be made so much more difficult with you?" Sydney asked him, proffering her hand to help him up. He looked at her skeptically, but accepted her hand and pulled himself up. He fixed what he obviously thought was a rakish grin on his face.

"It's more fun that way," he answered breezily. "So, where are we going next?" Sydney sighed. He simply wouldn't take no for an answer. It seemed fighting him would only make things worse. And besides, though Sydney would never admit it, there was some comfort knowing she wasn't in this alone. She reached into her pocket and drew out the red envelope. She pulled out the paper and skimmed its contents.

"A BND medical facility in Arizona."

"BND? As in Bundesnachrichtendienst, German federal intelligence?"

"Your German pronunciation leaves something to be desired, but yes, German Federal Intelligence." Sydney continued skimming the paper. "Off the books testing and experimentation from the looks of it. I doubt this is going to be easy."

"I don't know about that. I like a good challenge, don't you?"

"Shut it, Sark."

"Shall we take the stairs?"

"I would say so."

"After you."

"Much obliged."

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Three

"Closer", The Wallflowers. **Listen to while:** Sark and Sydney escape the Yukuza and they are stopped at the streetlight and they go to Sark's apartment.

Lyrics: _How soft a whisper can get  
When you're walking through a crowded space  
I hear every word being said  
And I remember that everyday  
I get a little bit closer to you_

"Feel This", Enation. **Listen to when:** Sydney finds the picture of Sark and her mother. Sark storms off to the guest bathroom, frustrated at Sydney's coldness. Simultaneously, Sydney thinks the picture she found in Sark's wallet, wondering at all the possibilities it might mean. After, Sark confronts Sydney in the master bedroom, where he sees his wallet on the bed, and the realization that she's seen the picture hits him.

Lyrics:

"Move", Thousand Foot Crutch. **Listen to when:** Sark realizes the tear gas is billowing into the room, Sark and Sydney fight off the intruders and escape to the elevator.

Lyrics:


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sark's past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** This chapter is a monster. All the other chapters are around 10 pages, this one somehow got up to 15 before I even realized it had happened. There might be some timeline inconsistencies (I thought in the first season Sydney says her and Will have known each other for 3 years, and then in the new episode of Alias with Will, she says she's known him since freshman year. Ah well, it honestly doesn't matter, I just thought I'd mention it) but otherwise, there are many different things going on in this chapter. No explosions, but there may or may not be a sexy scene hidden in there somewhere ;-) Enjoy!!

* * *

The explosion from the elevator had blown the garage door completely off, embedding itself in someone's unfortunately parked Mazda Miata. Sydney could see that the beautiful cars she had admired on her way to Sark's apartment were nothing more than hunks of burning shrapnel after the sabotaged elevator inferno.

Sark didn't curse; he merely stared at the flaming wreckage with disconsolate acceptance. Sydney watched him as he slumped from the hole in the building where the garage door used to be to where she was standing near the street. He threw up one arm, trying to hail down a cab.

"You should be thankful we got alive," she chastised him. "They're only cars, you know. It's not like you can't go out and buy another one. You certainly have the resources."

"That's not the point", Sark spat. "That was my _Aston Martin._ That was my _James Bond_ car. They only make 100 of them in the whole world, you know." He shot her an accusatory look. "I just lost upwards of $3 million in that little escapade, taking into account the apartment that was undoubtedly destroyed as well. I'm sure if this happened to you that you'd expect me to empathize." He frowned at her, his expression a cross between frustration and disappointment. "You're not making me feel better about all of this, you know. Aren't you supposed to be good at things like that?"

Sydney surprised herself and found she actually _did_ feel bad, if only a little bit. Her cheeks felt hot as she opened her mouth to issue some sort of sarcastic retort to mask this absurd emotion when her mind came back around to earlier in the night, in the club.

_The Disk._

Sydney grabbed his wrist, urgency gripping her.

"Sark, did you leave the -" Sark lifted an eyebrow and looked down at her small hand wrapped around his wrist, gripping him uncomfortably tight. His other was already in the pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out the disk and holding it in front of her face, the light from the streetlamps reflecting a prism of colors off the disk and on to Sydney's face. He ripped his arm from her grasp and rubbed his wrist.

"There's no need to manhandle me, you know I always follow through." She was beginning to see now that Sark was, as he had advertised, a man of his word. She had always carelessly assumed he'd lie just as soon as open his mouth, but she was finding she grossly underestimated him. Not only was she wrong, but that assumption could have been something she could have paid dearly for…had they not been on the same side.

A taxi pulled up beside them and Sark held the door open for her, waiting for her to get inside. She could hear sirens in the distance now, closing in on the flaming garage. She sat down in the patched backseat of the cab and watched as Sark sat besides her and closed the door behind him.

"LaGuardia, please," Sark told the cabbie, who nodded and started the meter.

"Where are we going?" Sydney asked him.

"The BND facility is in Arizona, correct?" He spoke slowly, as if he was explaining something to a five-year old.

"Yes…" Sydney replied warily.

"Don't you live in Arizona?"

"Yes…" She didn't like where this train of thought was heading.

"Well, seeing as I opened my apartment up to you…"

"You don't honestly think you're staying at my house, do you?" Sydney snapped. "Don't you have millions of dollars at your disposal? I think there's a Motel 6 down the road that will only put you out 70 bucks a night."

"Now how practical would that be?"

"No."

"I'll even sleep on the couch, even though I was so hospitable as to give you my bed when you were a guest in _my_ home."

"Absolutely not."

"Sydney…"

Sydney put a hand to her temple, as if massaging a headache away. "Fine."

Sark allowed himself a small smirk. "Excellent."

Sydney was using one of the private plane's laptops to look at the disk The Messenger had demanded they procure. She'd been trying for the past hour of their 5 hour flight from New York to Tucson to crack the encryption but so far it had proved fruitless. She was no Marshall Flinkman when it came to unraveling encryptions, but she was no slouch either. She had run out of ideas and was wracking her brain for more answers when the monitor flashed blue, reading "Fatal Security Breach" and shut down. Sydney blinked. She instinctively smacked the side of the monitor. She tried to turn the laptop back on but it remained black. She let out a frustrated sigh and stood up; walking a row back to wear Sark was leaning back in his seat with his head back, eyes closed.

"I just broke the airplane laptop," she stated matter-of-factly.

"See, this is why I don't buy you anything nice. I give you something expensive to play with and you break it," Sark mumbled drolly, not opening his eyes.

"Sark, this is serious. We need to find out what's on that disk."

Sark groaned. "Didn't The Messenger say we wouldn't be able to access the information? You better hope you haven't corrupted the data now."

Sydney snuffed derisively. "Of course I didn't, I took the necessary precautions. I'm not an idiot."

"Sometimes I wonder. Sydney, why don't you get some sleep? We're going to need clear heads to carry this out."

Sydney flopped in the seat opposite him, dejected. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she couldn't sleep, didn't want to, no yet.

_How could he just lay there? What is the saying? 'Only the guilty can sleep soundly'?_

"How do I know you won't garrote me in my sleep?" Sydney asked him.

Sark cracked one eye open and gave her an indulgent half-smile. "It wouldn't be in my best interest to do so. Besides, how would I explain it to the pilot?"

Something had been pressing on Sark's mind since he'd been so delightfully accosted by Sydney in her home 2 days previous. She hadn't made any mention of this particular point of interest at all, which was strange in itself. But now since they were going back to her house, he had to press the issue. He couldn't help it; he'd never been one to let sleeping dogs lie.

"So, how will Agent Vaughn feel about me crashing on your couch?" Sark asked slyly, now fully alert and awake. "The look on his face would be absolutely priceless."

He waited for her typical smartass reply, but instead felt an icy feeling of regret creep up his spine when Sydney's face abruptly changed. When just a moment before she had been in her usual state of unspoken superiority, her face was now blanched and conflicted. Sark couldn't quite place what emotions playing across her features, but they were not good; he immediately regretted going down this path.

"You don't know," she said softly, though it was more of a statement than a question. She wasn't sad; she was more detached, distant. Sark treaded lightly.

"I've been taking a bit of a sabbatical lately, I haven't been keeping tabs. Did you…break up?"

Sydney's face was impassive and cold. There were alarm bells going off in Sark's head. Sydney answered in the same strange voice; controlled and unfeeling, yet masking a strong emotion he couldn't quite place.

"Something like that."

Sark paused. She was better off without him. Michael Vaughn had always been so insufferably self-righteous and ignorant. Not the kind of man he ever imagined Sydney with.

_The kind of man that would kill his own wife._ But his thoughts weren't with Lauren now.

"I see," he replied evenly. He wasn't sure he wanted to pursue this topic further. She had piqued his interest, yes. But as entertaining it would have been to see Vaughn's face upon seeing his arch nemesis sleeping on his girlfriend's couch, there was something off about the whole situation. There was a whisper in the back of Sark's mind he couldn't quite hear, a feeling that he didn't want to listen to anything else Sydney had to say about any of this.

Sydney didn't say anything for a few moments. The whole situation felt strangely surreal, as if the air was charged with an oncoming storm. She said the words without actually hearing them; automatic and hollow.

"He's dead."

Whatever Sark had been expecting, this hadn't been it. He'd always seen Agent Vaughn as this ever-annoying presence, an eternal thorn in his side. He was unavoidable, self-righteous and enduring. Or so Sark had thought.

_Dead._

Sark didn't bother hiding his shock; his eyes went wide and hid mouth hung slightly open for a few seconds. It wasn't just the news of Agent Vaughn's death that left Sark speechless; it was Sydney's complete lack of emotion at declaring it.

"I'm sorry," Sark replied automatically. He wasn't sorry. Not sorry at all.

Sydney finally focused her eyes on Sark, as if seeing him for the first time.

"I'm not."

Sydney welcomed the dry heat of Arizona after the stifling humidity of New York City as they exited the Tucson International Airport. She felt sticky with sweat and grime and she desperately wished to wash the past night down the drain with a hot shower. She had napped fitfully on the plane ride, never quite reaching a sound slumber. The discussion between her and Sark on the plane weighed heavily on her mind and body, and she wished for nothing more than to hail a cab back to her apartment and crash.

Sark hadn't pressed her for more information, for which she was grateful for. She expected him to make some sort of snide comment, but he had refrained. She shouldn't question why he had restrained himself, but for someone who had never held back his opinion on the man they had once known as Michael Vaughn, his silence had been almost as unbearable as his commentary would have been.

Sark broke the four hour long silence as a nearby cab sidled up to the curb and Sydney stepped forward to get inside.

"Sydney, I know someone in the area who might help us with the disk. I know my way back to the house; I won't be more than a few hours." He held his hand out, expecting her to hand it to him. Sydney narrowed her eyes.

"If you expect me to just hand the disk over and let you waltz around doing whatever you please with it, then you are as stupid as you are a sadistic son of a bitch. I'll just go with you if you don't mind." She was back to her old condescending self, to which Sark heartily preferred to the cold, emotionless Sydney he had glimpsed in the plane. However, this was one visit Sark wanted to do on his own.

"I'd rather take care of this myself," he replied coolly. "If it's all the same to you." They stared at each other now, using their eyes to battle for control.

"It isn't all the same to me. Where are we going?" Sark glared defiantly at her for a moment. He finally rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Could you take us to University of Arizona, please?" The cabbie nodded and the tires churned up dust as they sped away from the memory of a man that haunted them both.

After stopping and buying some clean clothes at the college bookstore, Sydney and Sark strolled through the campus, appearing every bit the poster students for the University of Arizona. Dressed in Arizona-emblazoned shorts and a tank top herself, Sydney found it disconcerting how normal Sark looked with his hands jammed into the pockets of a zip up track jacket. What she found oddly disturbing was that he was wearing mesh shorts. She'd never seen him in anything other than designer suits or reconnaissance gear, thus making the sight of actual legs somewhat surreal. She was staring at his defined calves with an odd look on her face.

He caught her looking and asked innocently, "Like what you see, Miss Bristow?"

Sydney shook herself out of her thoughts. "What? No. No! I was just thinking…nevermind. So who, exactly, are we here to see? Some genius grad student? Professor?"

Sark wound his way around a large brick building. "Not exactly." They came upon the quad, a large square of grass where countless college students were laying out with books, throwing Frisbees, and drinking barely concealed bottles of alcohol.

"I'll be right back," he told her. Sydney raised her eyebrows dubiously. She was very skeptical about this whole ordeal. Sydney watched as Sark weaved his way through the throngs of students, coming to stand next to a petite blond woman who looked no older than 18 sitting by herself with a laptop in hand. Sydney strained to hear the conversation.

"…Devon…"

"…goddamned, Julian. What do you want?"

"…need a favor…"

"…willing to do give me what I want?"

"…Irina…"

"…Sydney?"

Sydney saw the small blond woman turn to where she was standing, a cryptic, proverbial smile crossing her face. She had small, sharp features surrounded by a glow of wavy blond hair. A small diamond nose stud glinted amongst a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Not beautiful on the classic sense but striking and sprightly in appearance and presence. The blond held out her hand and Sark reached into his pocket and handed her the disk. The girl placed the disk on her pointer finger and closed her laptop with the other hand as she stood up.

"…wait here…one hour…no guarantees."

She took off in the opposite direction and Sydney watched her, wondering if she started running know she could take the pixie-like girl down in one kick. Sydney approached the blanket Sark was now sitting on. She towered above Sark's seated form, her hands on her hips.

"This is bullshit. You expect a _college student_ to be able to help us? And you just let her prance off with the disk I lost a chunk of my arm for?"

Sark leaned back on one hand, putting his feet out in front of him, and used the other hand to shield his eyes against the sun to look at Sydney's face. She looked absolutely livid. Despite his better judgment he padded the ground next to him.

"Sydney, don't get yourself into a huff. Sit down. Enjoy the weather. Get a tan. She'll be back in an hour and I guarantee you won't be disappointed. For a 20 year old, she probably has the highest IQ on the campus, including the professors and grad students. I watched her break a 512-bit encryption without breaking a sweat. You were probably doing things like this at her age, only she does it better. I wish I had bought some sunglasses, all this squinting against the sun is giving me a headache."

"You give me a headache," Sydney muttered, grudgingly joining him on the blanket. The minutes passed by slowly without either of them exchanging words. Sydney was reminded of her days at college, which were not spent going out to parties or drinking, but alone in the library or in her dorm room. She looked around at all the students enjoying the summer session, feeling a bit nostalgic. She wondered if she had made a bit more of an effort at making friends, if she had gone to more than the occasional party, would she have accepted the job at SD-6?

She suspected she still would have, considering how determined Sloane had been about her recruitment, but so many things could be different now if she had taken that one single step in a different direction. She might have never went on to grad school, might not have ever met Will and Danny. Danny and Francie could be alive right now. Sydney shook her head of the thought. There was nothing to be done of that now.

A group of giggling sorority girls sat nearby, clearly making eyes at Sark. Sydney glanced over at him, but he seemed not to notice he had attracted some admirers. His eyes were following the ultimate Frisbee game, his head was cocked to one side and he had a curious expression on his face.

"So, you just tackle the person with the Frisbee, then?" he asked aloud, turning to Sydney.

"I have no idea. I didn't much pay attention to that kind of stuff at college. How much more time do we have to wait?" Sydney asked impatiently.

"Not much longer." Sydney glanced over at Sark's admirers again, still talking behind their hands. They were babies, no older than 18. One caught Sydney looking in their direction and shot her a brazenly dirty look. Sydney's mouth dropped open in shock and she narrowed her eyes at them, her eyes flashing dangerously. They stopped whispering, their smug smiles wiped clean off their faces.

_This was such a stupid idea…waste of my time…haven't slept in 30 hours…going to kill Sark when this doesn't pan out…_

In the midst of her mental tirade, Sydney saw Sark's shoulders tense out of her peripheral vision. She looked up to see the petite woman sauntering back over to them, her laptop gone, but holding the disk and a stack of papers. She bore the same enigmatic smile as when she left, as if she held a secret she would never share. Seeing her close up now, Sydney saw the woman was still so young, yet there was a feeling of an old soul on her, as if she'd already seen too much for such a young age. Sydney knew what that burden looked like; she'd seen it in the mirror since the age of 18. She found herself wondering who this girl was and what Sark had to do with her.

The girl dropped the papers in front of Sark and held out the disk to Sydney.

"I'm surprised you let me walk off with this," the blond girl spoke to Sydney directly. "I half expected a kick to the spine as I walked away." Sydney plucked the disk from the blonde's finger, meeting her gaze.

"Would that have been a mistake?" Sydney asked dubiously.

"Absolutely. But your first mistake is coming here with him." Sark was ruffling through the large stack of papers but stopped at this comment.

"I completely agree with you," Sydney replied. "I didn't exactly have a choice. Devon, is it?" Sydney asked.

"Good ears. And you're Sydney Bristow: the man, the myth, the legend." At the mention of "The Man" Sydney's mind lurched to her mother.

Sark had stopped shuffling through the papers and pushed himself off the ground.

"Well, this is all well and good, and as much as I love the two of you bonding and all, we should go."

Devon fished around in her pocket and brought out a slip of paper.

"Here's the account number. In addition to the sum we discussed, I'll need compensation for the hard drive this disk burned out trying to figure out the decryption. It was a real bitch." She looked at the papers in Sark's hands. "What you've got there is a dossier on a Doctor Annabelle Carlyle, well known in the medical community for her breakthrough technique in utilizing electromagnetic nodes in the brain to send pulses to the cerebellum, helping to lessen the physical ticks of neurological diseases like Turrets and Parkinson's."

Sydney looked over Sark's shoulder at the stack of papers. "A dossier on a neurologist? That's all?"

Devon shook her head. "This dossier includes documentation and photographs of everything Carlyle has ever done or thought about doing, extracurricular activities involving male escorts included. However, it also includes calculations and figures manipulating Carlyle's technology, which may or may not be implemented by Carlyle herself."

Sark rifled through the papers for a few more moments, then shuffled them back in place and placed the piece of paper Devon held into his pocket.

"Everything seems to be in order. You can expect the transfer in 3-5 business days." Sark paused, as if debating an internal decision. "You're certain this is what you want?"

Devon smiled that same crooked, cryptic smile. "It's my path to take." Sydney's mind whirled around this little exchange, finding the familiarity and ambiguity between Sark and Devon disconcerting.

"So be it then," Sark concluded in a low voice. "I'll be seeing you."

Devon laughed low in her throat. "No, you won't. Pleasure meeting you, Sydney." She reached down and picked up her blanket and threw it over one shoulder and walked through the quad, never giving them a second glance.

Sydney put a hand on her hip and turned to Sark, a question raising one eyebrow.

"Now what was all _that_ about?"

Sark quickly turned on his heel, turning his back to the sun and to Devon's retreating form.

"Today has not been a good day for my bank account," Sark finally spoke. His voice was even, speaking in his typical aloof, slightly perturbed tone once again. Whatever had just taken place, Sydney knew it was over now, and she was left in the dark. It was simply another one of Sark's secrets stacking on top of all the rest, nothing Sydney needed to know.

_And yet…_

"I'll be glad when that insurance check comes in for my New York apartment. Can we please leave now?" Sark asked dryly. Sydney shrugged. The moment had passed and Sark was already walking away from her.

The artic blast of the air conditioner revived Sydney from the stupor she'd sunk into on the cab ride from the University back to her home. She could hardly review the dossier Devon had given them in the drive from Tucson to Phoenix, the cab gently bumped along the dusty roads, lulling the sleep-deprived Sydney into feeling the harsh effects of sleep deprivation. Sark, however, looked as refreshed and alert as if he'd just gotten 8 hours of undisturbed rest and had flipped the pages of Carlyle's profile with increased fervency. Sydney waited for Sark to cross the threshold and then quickly keyed in the security alarm code and shut the door behind him.

Sark followed Sydney into the living room and dropped to the couch, papers in hand.

"Did you want to continue looking at the dossier?" he asked her. Sydney stopped in her tracks. She had been headed to her bedroom, intent on passing out.

_How is this kid still standing? How can he still be raring to go and I can barely keep standing?_

"Honestly? If I don't go to sleep right now I will be of no help to anyone."

Sark's face relaxed in relief.

"Oh, thank God. I thought you could've gone all night, and I didn't want to be the one who opted out first. I'm completely knackered." He laid the dossier on the coffee table and zipped off his track jacket, leaving on his black wife beater and mesh shorts. He ripped off his shoes and positioned himself lengthwise on the couch.

"I don't have to worry about walking out here and finding out you sleep in the nude, do I?" Sydney queried drolly.

"I'll try to quell the burning desire to rip off my clothes when I'm around you, Miss Bristow, but only if you promise the same," answered sardonically, his voice muffled from behind a pillow. "Sleep well."

"The couch folds out into a futon."

"Mmm hmm."

Sydney turned around and walked to her bedroom, already hearing Sark's breathing become slow and even from behind her. She fell on top of the covers, exhaustion overriding all the fear, all the confusion; and then her eyelids closed and there was nothing but peace.

His sharp intake of breath was the only betrayal of his surprise as he wrapped the towel low around his waist. She leaned against the doorframe lazily, one eyebrow raised languidly in detached interest. Her feet and legs were bare; the rest of her lithe physique covered only in a men's white button up shirt.

Without bothering to feign inhibition, Sark looked Sydney up and down, taking in her less than covered form.

"You shouldn't have come in, I'm not decent," he drawled, his voice deliberately casual. Sydney slinked softly across the slippery tile, keeping her eyes on the top of Sark's towel hanging suggestively low on his hips. His abdomen was muscular and trim, cut without being obscenely brawny. His lower abdomen formed that V-shaped definition that dipped down past the line of the towel into parts unknown. She circled him, making his head turn as he watched her.

"Decent? I'm surprised you know the meaning of the word," she mused coyly, slowly circling behind him. She lifted a single finger and traced the sensitive skin right above the hem of the towel on his back, continuing her rotation around, trailing her fingernail around his side, finally coming to a stop at the middle of his abdomen, nudging the adventurous finger in between the towel and Sark's slick skin.

"This is most unlike you, Sydney. What has gotten into you?" His voice was intrigued and husky. Beads of liquid dotted his brow line; it wasn't from the shower.

Sydney awoke with a cry, her body bathed in sweat. Her pulse was racing in her veins and she was panting, trying to catch her breath. She put a hand to her chest, as if she could quell the adrenaline pounding through her veins by her own will. She quickly look down and saw she was quite decently, still dressed in her University of Arizona tank top and shorts and not skimpily dressed in only a man's shirt.

_Why? Why, oh God, why would she dream that? Had it been that long since she'd been with a man that she was fantasizing about Sark? A cold-blooded, heartless, murdering, cocky, infuriating prick? No, not fantasizing, fantasizing was deliberate and intentional. It was my subconscious. The most sadistic, humorless part of my subconscious._

So, why did the idea of subconsciously wanting Sark scare her more than if she had thought of it deliberately?

"Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus," Sydney muttered, burying her face in her hands in embarrassment. Her face was undoubtedly beet red; it felt as if the blood in her face had been set to boil. Then, a thought hit her like a bolt of lightning, jolting her dead to the spot. When she'd woken up, she'd shouted something.

Had she called out Sark's name?

"Oh God, oh Jesus, Oh God," Sydney quickly pushed herself out of bed and cringed when she saw her door was slightly ajar. He could have heard…if that was, in fact, what she said. She padded down the hallway, hoping the red from her face would drain by the time she had reached his couch. However, when she stepped into the living room, the couch was bare, Sark nowhere to be seen.

Perplexed, Sydney looked toward the bathroom. The door was closed. He was probably in the shower, he hadn't have heard a thing. Sydney breathed out a sigh of supreme relief. _As if the sniveling little jerk needed something else to hold against her._

Despite the adrenaline rush now tapering down in her system, Sydney felt sluggish from oversleeping. Her body craved caffeine, so she wound her way to the kitchen, only to find coffee already made. She leaned above the carafe, dubiously sniffing the steaming liquid. She wouldn't put it past him to put something in her coffee.

_Stop. You need to stop thinking like that or you'll drive yourself crazy. There's nothing poisonous in the coffee, just drink it._

Putting her inborn inclination to believe he'd poison her coffee aside, she pulled out a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup. It smelled delicious, like hazelnut and vanilla, and despite her reservations about what might be in it, Sydney opened the refrigerator to grab milk to add to her beverage.

But there was no milk.

The empty carton was sitting on top of the trash can, amongst used coffee ground and empty sugar packets. Sydney stared at the refuse, her embarrassment fading quickly to annoyance.

"Used the last of the milk and didn't say anything? Didn't my mother teach you any manners?" Sydney mused aloud. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose.

Sydney walked purposefully out of the kitchen and over to the closed bathroom door. She rapped loudly on its surface, listening for any signs of a shower running.

"You can't just drink someone's milk and not tell them, you know. Were you expecting me to _thank_ you for making the coffee? Cause I can't even drink it if I don't have milk. Sark. Sark?" On the other side of the wall was silence. Sydney couldn't hear the shower, not even the small shuffle of bare feet on tile.

"Damn it," Sydney cursed softly. She should just push the door open. There was no lock, it had been busted since she moved in and she hadn't gotten around to being fixed yet. However, after her dream, she suddenly felt gun-shy, overcome with anxiety to walk in and find him half naked, or worse.

_Or better?_

"Stop it," she commanded herself under her breath. She straightened her spine, cocked her head from side to side, and wished for her face to return to a normal color. "I'm giving you 3 seconds and I'm coming in. 1…2…3." Her hand was on the handle and only hesitating for a few seconds before she pushed the door open.

It was empty. She quickly threw the shower curtain aside, finding it vacant. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, not anywhere. This was not a good situation.

A thought flashed across her brain suddenly, sending Sydney to the front door of the house. She threw the door open, only to find an empty driveway greeting her.

"I can't believe it. He stole my car. He stole my fucking car." Sydney stood, open-mouthed, gaping at her naked driveway. "I'm going to kill him." She had gone from embarrassed, to annoyed, to livid in 60 seconds, and was quickly gunning toward homicidal. Inwardly, she was glad for an excuse to actively hate him after waking up to the image of half-naked Sark imprinted in her brain. It was dirty and wrong.

The worst part is, she didn't mind. They were better than other nightmares she'd been having ever since Vaughn had been killed. Truth was, this was the first dream she'd remembered that hadn't involved Vaughn, the betrayal, the baby, Prophet 5, and blood; and for that, Sydney was thankful. In retrospect, steamy shower sequences involving a young, attractive Russian spy were almost harmless.

_Almost being the operative word._

But now this. She didn't know why she expected more out of him.

"I'm going to kill him."

"Kill who?"

Sark's lilting voice echoed through the room, making Sydney's eyes go wide as she slowly shut the front door and turned around, facing an infuriatingly fresh faced Sark standing a few feet away. He was trying to hide a small, crooked smirk and failing horribly. Sydney crossed her arms across her chest, the realization that she hadn't changed in more 12 hours and hadn't showered in more than 24 hitting her with a wave of self conciseness. She gestured forcefully with one arm out the window.

"You stole my car. Where is it?"

His wide-eyed, patient expression was beyond irritating.

"Well, while you were having a bit of a lie in, I made some coffee and read over Carlyle's dossier, and drew up some specs for breaking into the BMD facility. And since you imposed that harsh no nudity policy, I went and bought some extra clothes."

She realized now he wasn't dressed in the university clothing they had purchased yesterday, but conservatively dressed in faded jeans and a white tee-shirt. He looked bizarrely normal.

"My car," Sydney repeated stubbornly. The image of a towel clad Sark kept creeping back into her mind, and she felt her cheeks heat up. She was acting like her normal, brutish self, but Sark noticed there was something distinctly peculiar about her.

"I parked your car around back, that way it was closer to the kitchen. I figured that if I was staying here, I should probably provide my own food." It appeared as if she was trying to look at anything but him. Apparently, the bookshelf behind his right shoulder was very interesting. He glanced over his shoulder, and found nothing out of the ordinary. Sydney seemed very agitated, and not just about the car.

"Am I missing something here?" Sark asked lightly.

"How did you get in? I set the security code."

"I broke into your house once. What made you think I wouldn't do it again? I am a bit hurt you didn't make me privy to the password though, we are roommates now after all. Since you didn't feel it necessary to tell me the code, I had to reprogram it myself. The new code is 052206."

Sydney forced herself to look into Sark's face, intent on making herself clear. "You listen, and you listen good. This is not a social visit for you. You are staying here at an inconvenience to me, and in doing so, you won't be reprogramming anything of mine without telling me. You will not move a stick of furniture, you won't set foot outside this house, you will not breath in a way I deem unfit without alerting me first. There will no objections to and no deviations from this plan, is that clear?"

Saying these conditions aloud strengthened Sydney and her mouth was set in a determinedly straight line. Her eyes no longer betrayed her inner thoughts, and whatever Sark had sensed amiss with her had gone with the faint blush he had thought he'd seen on her cheeks.

"Of course…Agent Bristow. I left the specs on the counter in the kitchen for you to peruse at your earliest convenience. I suggest that we leave tonight to infiltrate the BND facility, if that pleases you, of course." He turned around and started to walk away. Sydney let out a sigh of relief. She needed time alone, time to think, and time to strategize. About everything.

"Oh, and Sydney?" Sydney's head jerked up. Sark had stopped halfway down the hall.

"I used the last of your milk this morning. There's a new carton in the refrigerator."

Sydney grudgingly admitted Sark's plan for breaking into the BND medical facility was well thought out and probably the best course of action to take. The only amended she could make was a backup contingency plan. She had used a contact of hers in the area, as opposed to his, in acquiring some equipment, including infrared and night vision surveillance equipment around the perimeter of the disk dead drop.

The Messenger had indicated they put the disk from the Yukuza dinner club in a fast food bag and dead drop the package at a specified trash can before they head to the medical facility. Though both she and Sark were sure they'd be expecting video surveillance, it didn't hurt to try. Sark had suggested she stay behind to see if she could spy who made the pickup, but she quickly put an end to that line of thinking. Besides, they both knew they couldn't gain access to the medical facility without the other's help.

They worked seamlessly in tune with one another; finding a strange, instinctual synchronization as they prepared to infiltrate the facility. Their combined years of espionage experience made the preparation short and accurate, moving together in watertight precision. At precisely 1 a.m. they arrived a half mile from the compound and after a short hike came to a high stone wall. Sydney deactivated the sensors on a section of the protective fencing, giving them access to the site. Sark tossed a small, soft package over the 20 foot wall and proceeded to climb over its exterior, landing softly on the other side. He was already pulling the medical scrubs out of the package and putting them on over his clothes as Sydney landed quietly beside him.

Sydney reached into her pocket and pulled out a full pack of Marlboro menthols, ripping off the wrapper and took out 2 cigarettes. She handed them to Sark as she began dressing in her own scrubs. Sark put the two cigarettes to his lips, pulled out a lighter and lit the two ends, inhaling smoke as the ends curled to ash.

Sydney stole a glance over at him as she tied the drawstring of her scrub pants; the glow from the lighter casting his delicate features into soft relief. She had had most of the afternoon alone; going over the plans Sark had drawn up, thankful for his absence if even for a short time. She had made peace with her dream, accepting that it was an amalgamation of stress and close quarters with Sark that lead her subconscious to run away with her. However, she couldn't shake the lingering affects the dream held over her. The mental image of a half dressed Sark remained on the edge of her mind despite her best efforts to purge it from her conscience thoughts. Looking at him, his aquiline nose and crooked upper lip illuminated by the small flickering flame, Sydney was afraid to face the idea that these thoughts and feelings might not be a fleeting, inconsequential aberration. The unintentional fantasy had left scars on her conscious mind, and they were proving to run deep indeed.

Sark handed her one of the cigarettes, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly at the taste. He had smoked cigars with clients in business meetings but cigarettes never did anything for him. He watched as Sydney held the cigarette like some sort of foreign, disgusting insect and after a moment's hesitation pop the end in her mouth, inhaling the acrid smoke. She was being unusually un-opinionated since this morning, placidly going along with his plan and with minimal cheek. Sydney exhaled, breathing smoke into the air, determinedly looking straight ahead as she started walking quickly toward a service exit of the medical facility.

"May I remind you that giving me the silent treatment is very unprofessional?" Sark chided quietly, blowing a large billow of smoke behind him as he spoke.

Sydney debated on answering him. They walked in silence, exhaling thin trails of smoke into the clear night air. They reached the service exit and they both plucked the cigarettes from their lips, stomping them out on the macadam.

"Get your head in game, Sark." Sydney muttered. "We're on." Sydney's eyes flickered to a nearby service garage, a guard wandering by a parked trailer.

"I thought _you_ brought your card key!" Sydney berated Sark loudly, throwing her arms in the air. "If I'm being nice enough to let you bum a cigarette, the least you can is bring your key card."

Sark crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one foot, looking disgruntled. "Listen, I'm already late for my second shift," Sark lamented, his voice transitioning into a nasal, American accent. "How was I supposed to know you wouldn't bring your card? You asked me to come with you on a cig break right after I got done in the can, where am I supposed to hide my card then, eh? Up my ass?"

"You can take that card and shove it straight up your –"

"Christ, will the two of you shut up?" The guard had clearly heard their arguing and had come over to quiet the din. "Everyone on the damn compound probably heard you. Here." He reached into his pocket and brought out a key card and put it against the FOB console, opening the service exit. The door unlocked with a click and Sark held it open as Sydney knocked the guard conscience and dragged him behind a nearby dumpster. She handed him the guard's key card and shut the door behind them. They both put pulled surgeons masks' from their pockets and covered the lower portions of their faces.

With comms turned on they entered the building, each heading down opposite ends of the hall.

"Interloper, this is Red Fox. Do you copy, over?"

"You couldn't have picked a more malevolent sounding call sign for me? Was 'The Devil' already taken?"

"My old boss has that call sign all wrapped up, sorry. Are you on the way to the security citadel?"

"Almost there. If we're making up call signs, it's only fair I get to give you yours. You get Red Fox and I get Interloper? That is hardly fair."

Sydney came to a large steel door, an electronic keypad waiting for a password.

"Ready for access, Interloper."

Sark looked around a corner and upon finding it empty pulled out the guard's key card and swiped it past the sensor. He heard the satisfying click of the lock opening and within seconds he was inside security headquarters, quickly tapping away at the appropriate keys.

"Ok, Old Shrew, you have administrative authority to enter the testing facility."

Sydney watched as the consol next to the door flash green and unlock. "That's Red Fox, Interloper. Don't test me. Entering test facility now."

According to The Messenger's latest letter, Sydney was looking for sets of test tubes labeled, "Project Smoke". Taking in the type of equipment littering the lab, Sydney guessed whatever she was supposed to steal was in the field of nanobiotechnology. Using nanotechnology to break down materials to 100,000 times smaller than a grain of sand, scientists were using this technology in anything from electronic sensoring equipment to pharmaceutical usage. Sydney spied a small, metal sided refrigeration unit in the corner and stooped down to open it. It was lined with test tubes filled with a shiny, mercurial-looking liquid sloshing around gently inside them.

Sydney's comm suddenly squawked in her ear. "Sydney, you have incoming!" Sydney swore and grabbed three test tubes, reaching into her pocket and strapping them securely in a thin container.

"What is the point of call signs if we're not going to use them!?" she cursed at him as the door swung open.

Three men in uniforms identical to her unconscious friend outside came at her from all sides, fists flailing. Sydney took what little advantage she had and jumped up on a long lab table, running its length toward her assailants, sending a furious kick into the face of the first guard, knocking down a second in his fall. The third guard was quick, sidestepping his falling compatriots and grabbing Sydney's ankle, bringing her down hard and face first onto the steel lab table. Sydney grabbed a random beaker as he slid her off the table by her ankle, dropping her bodily to the floor. She threw the beaker into the third guard's face, eliciting a loud, girlish scream from his anguished mouth as one of the other guards stood up.

It was the unhurt guard, only briefly knocked over by the first guard, who appeared to be unconscious. He took advantage of her prone body and lifted a large, combat-boot covered foot onto her throat, cutting off air to her windpipe. He lifted his walkie-talkie and barked in German instructions for his fellow officers as Sydney gripped ineffectively at his boot. Stars were swimming fuzzily in front of her as she gasped for air, her feet beating harmless against the guard's extensive muscle and girth. He finished giving the location of the intruder and slipped his walkie talkie back into his belt, sneering down as she thrashed helplessly under his boot. Blackness was creeping in her frame of vision when she saw a flash of steel cut across the guard's throat; coating the front of his uniform in blood. Sydney felt the sweet rush of air flood her lungs as Sark pushed the guard over to the side, releasing the crushing force on her windpipe.

Sark kneeled down as she tried to sit up, her chest heaving. "Are you alright?" he asked breathlessly. Sydney tried to speak, but her voice gave way to a squeak so she merely nodded, pushing herself up quickly. Sark wiped the blood off the knife with the bottom of his shirt, already on the move.

"They're already on their way, I caught a glimpse of them on the monitors before I rushed out; I saw a hoard of them running from the other side of the compound, so we have a minute, maybe less. There was a shorter way out, there's a hall directly – " Sark stopped short of the door, his eyes going wide.

A familiar spasm behind his eyes pulsed painfully, robbing him of breath. He put a hand on the wall, trying to steady himself.

"Oh, God, not now…"

"Sark," Sydney hissed, finally finding her voice. "We got to go, what are you –" Blinding pain flashed white across Sark's vision, electricity firing across his brain in excruciating stabs. He lost his balance, crashing sideways onto a lab table, Pyrex beakers and test tubes shattering unknown substances on the both of them. Sark writhed in pain on the glass strewn floor, his head in his hands. Sydney stood frozen, unable to process what was going on. Amidst his agony, Sark's eyes locked with Sydney's, and she was forced out of her astonishment. She knelt down (careful to avoid the shards of glass herself) and hastily tried to brush some of the glass out from underneath Sark. She tried to pin his shoulders down prone to the floor to stop his shaking, but the strength of his pain was too great to keep down.

"Sark, we need to go."

Sark's eyes were wild and, Sydney was shocked to see, fearful.

"Sydney…" Sark gasped, and then as suddenly as he had seized up, he lay limp, his limbs askew. Sydney could hear the faint beeping sound as an alarm began to sound in a far corridor of the facility. She could hear shouts now, the other guards were close, and she'd never get out in time lugging Sark in tow.

Sydney considered, for a brief second, leaving him here, unconscious and bleeding on this cold, tiled floor.

"God_damn it!_" she whispered fiercely and grabbed Sark underneath the armpits and dragged his limp form backwards, looking around frantically for a place to hide. Sydney kicked open a closet filled with chemicals and supplies, cursing upon finding it without a nook to hide in. She was about to drop Sark and find a weapon when she saw a glint of metal behind one of the high supply shelves. She dropped Sark unceremoniously and quickly moved the shelf, careful not to knock anything over.

It was a large air duct, around 3 feet by 3 feet, just big enough to for the both of them if she slouched both herself and Sark in a leaning position. She yanked Sark back up and dragged him into the closet, shutting the door behind her. She yanked the slatted covering of the grate off the air duct and put it inside. With a grunt, she pulled Sark up under his armpits and taking care not to hit her head, crouched down and walked backwards into the duct.

With the unconscious Russian sitting in her lap she reached past him, hurriedly pulling the shelf of supplies in front of the air duct just as she heard the guards enter the main lab outside the closet. Sydney affixed the grate back on the front of the air duct, hoping the slats were close enough together and the shelf had enough on it to effectively hide the two spies.

So Sydney waited, Sark's head lolling against her shoulder and his back pressed tightly against her chest and abdomen. She waited as he sat between her splayed legs and she felt the heat of his steady breathing against her cheek. She smelled her shampoo in his hair, felt his muscles through his shirt, felt her heart stop as the closet door opened.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Four

"Burning Bridges", Jason Mraz. **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark are on the plane.

Lyrics: _I know exactly how you feel,  
Cause you were this to close a deal,  
And everything fell from out your hands,  
You must decide on other plans now._

"I Spy", Guster. **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark go to campus.

Lyrics: _It went down at the May parade, bitter words under my breath  
There is something I've been dyin to do, I was meaning to tell you  
I've been so damn sad  
Cause I spy something red_

"Dice", Finley Quay. **Listen to when:** Sydney has her dream.

Lyrics: _Nothing can compare  
to when you roll the dice and swear your love's for me_

"Can't Stop", Mozella. **Listen to when:** Sydney wakes up for her dream and looks for Sark.

Lyrics: _I'm losing sleep, over you  
And I just don't know what I've gotten myself into.  
You just have something that I need  
And I can't put my finger on it  
And you can't put yours on me._

"Paralyzed", Rock Kills Kid. **Listen to when:** When Sydney and Sark infiltrate the medical facility.

Lyrics: _Arms and legs in between  
Caught inside a stupid dream  
Look for her, but cannot see  
I give up, I give up  
There's no time to believe_


	5. Chapter 5, Part 1

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sark's past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** If chapter four was a monster at 15 pages, chapter five is frickin' Frankenstein at a whopping 21 pages. LJ wouldn't even let me post it all at once, so you will find part two posted right after this one. Many apologies for this update taking so long. Besides it being relatively the size of the bible, with the finale and the end of "Alias" as we know it, it took a little bit to get this chapter up and running. I might as well call this "Chapter: Exposition" instead of "Chapter Five", because you get the whole story about what happened with Sydney and Vaughn. You can also expect Sark to suffer a strange hallucination, as well as some _very_ interesting aliases for Sydney and Sark. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Listening to the slow, steady breathing of the unconscious Sark did nothing to slow the heartbeat of Sydney Bristow as the Germans ransacked the laboratory, looking for the two intruders that had infiltrated their facility. She knew they wouldn't be safe hiding in the air vent in the closet off of the laboratory for long, there were only so many places the guards could look until they found her. With the liability like a comatose Englishman in tow, Sydney had no time to lose.

Without having much confidence in a result, Sydney awkwardly reached from behind Sark and slapped him a few times across the face, trying to wake him. As gratifying as slapping him felt, when he didn't stir, Sydney put the back of her hand to his head. He was burning up, and his forehead was slick with sweat. Sydney didn't have time to ponder whether whatever had come over Sark was communicable or not, and she scooted her body by him, and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. It was still dotted with the blood of the man he'd killed back in the laboratory.

_The man he'd killed to save me._

Sydney shook her head, the thought of being indebted to Sark sending her into action. If she got them out of here, they would be even. If they didn't…they'd probably be dead, and so would her parents.

Crouching low and quiet, Sydney walked farther into the air vent, grabbing Sark by his shirt front and dragging him behind her across the smooth metal tunnel. She could hear the shrill echo of the alarm reverberating through the vent, quickening her step. She crawled around a bend in the vent, dragging Sark around with her as she heard the guards pushing aside mops and buckets inside the closet where she had found the vent. They'd find the grate soon. She had to move.

She turned into the first offshoot and peered out its grate. It was an examination room of some kind; gurneys with motionless bodies lined the fluorescent-lit room. She punched the grate out and stood up, pulling Sark by the hands out onto the cold floor. Leaving him on the ground, she reached for the nearest gurney. She touched the wrist of the body occupying it, finding it cold and lifeless.

"I'm sorry about this," she whispered, pulling the sheet off of his body and pushing the cadaver onto the floor. It landed with a dull, sickening thud. She cringed at the meaty sound and walked over the displaced corpse, pulling Sark up from under his armpits with a grunt of effort.

"Come on, Sark. Help me out here." He was complete dead weight; all limp limbs and fever-hot skin. He was sweating profusely now, making the transition from floor to gurney difficult to maneuver. His elbow clanged noisily against the metal of the gurney, making Sydney cringe again. She was breathing heavily and her wounded shoulder burned from the effort of lugging a full grown man.

"Just don't move," Sydney whispered to the comatose Sark, hoping that somewhere he could hear her. "Just hold still, we'll be out of here soon." She didn't know who she was trying to convince. She knew if she was caught there was no way she'd able to get the both of them out of here, and she didn't like to think of what would happen if that were to occur.

Pulling the sheet up over him, Sydney adjusted her surgical mask over her face and pushed Sark through the doors of the lab. The alarm was shrieking down the Formica hallways, echoing tunelessly along with the shouts from guards. She pushed the gurney down the hallway quickly, her eyes shifting left and right for signs of movement.

"Hey! Hey you!" a voice called out in German. Sydney stiffed, but turned around. A large, burly guard had rounded the hallway and was barreling toward her. "What are you doing?"

"What am _doing_? What are _you_ doing?" Sydney snapped at him, her German accent clipped and angry. "Can't you get whatever this is under control? Some of us have work to do." The guard looked a bit suspicious, which turned into him looking taken aback, then slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, but there's been a security breach; I'll just need to see your identification. Where are you taking this body?" Sydney reached into her pocket, pretending to fish around for her identification. She saw Sark twitch underneath the sheet out of the corner of her eye, prompting her to distract the guard's attention by throwing up her hands in a large show of indignation.

"Where do you think I'm taking it, fool? Just because you can't do your job you're stopping me from doing mine? This is ridiculous!" The guard was looking around, getting anxious. The other guards had gone off in the other direction, leaving Sydney, her "corpse", and the guard alone.

"Listen, just show me your identification and you can be on your way," the guard said in a rushed tone. There was a slight groan from underneath the sheet and the guard's head pivoted quickly to the supposed corpse, but not before Sydney could issue a quick jab to the soft tissue of his neck, rendering him unconscious. He fell to the floor in a heap, but Sydney was already gone, wheeling her Russian down the hall, wanting to get somewhere, anywhere but here.

And there it was, the neon sign shining in the distance like a heavenly beacon, "Krankenwagen". _Ambulances._ The doors pushed open and despite it being years since she'd hotwired an ambulance, it jumped to life within minutes and they were free.

Only until they'd gotten far enough away, miles from the BND facility and stopped at a red light, did Sydney allow herself to put her head to the steering wheel and shut her eyes for a moment. She hadn't realized that she depended on Sark for more than money and information. But now, glancing back at his shallow breathing form, she felt more alone than she had before he had come back into her life.

She had been living on her own; away from her life in L.A. and the people she called friends and family for months before Sark had come to her. He was an insufferable presence, constantly grating on her every nerve, but he had come to fill a void in her she hadn't known was empty. Perhaps it was the simple fact she didn't have to do things all on her own; having financial backup and an experienced partner increased her chances for success. Whatever it was, the road her parents save now had a Sark-sized hole in it, making the thought of pursuing her parents' kidnapper on her own now seemed a hopelessly impossible task.

She glanced back at Sark, his chest lifting and lowering in thin breaths. No, it wasn't just the fear of failing to find her parents all on her own that united them. She was bound to him now, as he was to her; their goals and efforts inextricably linked for brief moment in time. She knew what a partner would do, but Sark was a different animal altogether. For the first time, Sydney was at a loss as to what to do with Julian Sark.

The light turned green and she took her foot off the break.

_Which way to go?_

There were times Sark was sure he was dreaming. There were visions of him and his mother, his biological mother, the woman he'd watched be buried when he was six years old. The two of them walked side by side along the shore of a vast cerulean ocean, foam gathering at their heels. She looked young and beautiful, how he remembered she had looked before the drinking had taken her unmercifully. He was his full grown self, confiding in her all the people he had ever killed. She told him she didn't recognize her little boy anymore.

Then there were times he was sure he was awake. Sydney's voice rang through his mind, pleading with him to wake up. He saw her beside him, head in her hands. He called out to her but his mouth would not open, he wanted to reach out to her but his hand could not move.

Then, there were times were the line between dreams and reality blurred, where it was impossible to tell where real life ended, where memories began, and when the sickness took over.

Sark was walking on dead grass under a stormy green sky, turning his back to the cold, unforgiving wind as he waited for the man he had come to kill. He knew this place. Once colorful and full of life, the forgotten carnival was sinister in its dying days. The brightly colored lights now boasted broken bulbs and naked filaments, the absence of light casting an unnatural malaise over the park. Time had been cruel to the children's haven. Rain and time rusted the children's rides into sharp weapons. Clown's faces painted on Ferris Wheels and circus tents grinned sadistic smiles at him through the years of accumulated grime. He couldn't be sure, but when the wind stopped blowing, he could swear he heard the faint strains of calliope music.

The boarding school had taken him and rest of the children there on field trips late in the summer, when the leaves started to turn. Walking along the long abandoned paths, Sark recalled deserting his classmates and all the noise and lights in search for a small space under a stairway or an abandoned animal pen in which hide himself. Even as a child Sark sought out peace and quiet, shunning noise and other children in favor of solitude. He had been prone to isolate himself from a very young age and Irina had fostered this inclination, saying it would make him strong. The memory of spending hour upon hour holed up in an abandoned peanut vendor booth seemed more real than his quiet approach to the now decrepit carousel where a man stood, waiting for him.

Sark's body glided along, unheard. His movements were quick and calculated, being done not by his own volition but by some sort of driving force, a foreign entity guiding his movements while his own thoughts and actions lay dormant in his own mind. The man stood with his back to Sark, and Sark was reminded of his father. This man had the same tall, narrow-waisted build as Andrian Lazaray, the same confident stance. Sark watched himself unsheathe his knife as if watching from a distance. He wondered in the same quiet, latent voice if this man would bleed as his father had; the flow relentless and death inescapable.

The slash to the man's throat was quick and clean, he hadn't even seen Sark coming. The man's gun fell from his hand, clattering underneath a chipped, blood red carousel horse. He put his hands to his wound as a reflex, but the flow of blood was merciless, his fight against the inevitable, fruitless. The man turned over, his last breaths gurgling in his throat.

Sark looked down at Michael Vaughn's face, contorted in his last moments of agony.

"You…" Vaughn managed to utter, choking on the word. Sark continued to peer at him, feeling victory in the back of his mind where he was still in control. But the smug retort he had always wanted to spit at the man would not come, his body unable to fulfill this deep-set desire. No look of triumph flashed across his eyes and no kick while Vaughn was already down. His own body would not obey to his cruel desires.

Sark turned away without so much as a lingering look, his job completed. He could hear Vaughn writhing around on the rotted floorboards of the carousel. Lightning cracked overhead as he wiped the knife clean of blood and fingerprints.

A storm was coming.

He was running a steady fever of 104, alternating between the shakes and the sweats. Sydney thought Sark sometimes regained conscienceless for a few seconds here and there. Once she had gone to get to take a quick shower after he had remained quiet for awhile, only to find him halfway out the front door when she came back. His eyes were open but he wasn't responding. Only after she slapped him a few times did his eyes fall on her in distant clarity. Her hand left a mark on his cheek, an angry red flush that Sark barely registered.

She saw the moment of understanding wash over him and he whispered, "Sydney?" Sydney breathed out a shocked sigh of relief, instinctively taking his hand in hers in hopes of keeping him in the moment of lucidity.

"Sark, what is going on? What happened to you? Are you alright?" He looked confused and disoriented, his eyes darting around the room.

"No. I don't think I am." This admission of frailty scared Sydney more than his physical symptoms. The fever, the shakes, those she could handle. The brutal honesty in which he admitted his own weakness was almost too much for Sydney. She didn't know how to take care of anyone but herself. She didn't know how to care for someone she despised.

She snaked her arm underneath his armpit, flinging his arm over her good shoulder. She had ripped a few stitches dragging Sark through the air vents at the BND facility and had to close up the wound with superglue, finding herself without a partner to sew her back up. She buckled slightly under his almost dead weight, but trudged back to the bedroom and put him back to bed. Her shoulder was bleeding through her shirt but she left it on, letting it cake and set into the fabric.

Sydney took up the chair she had pulled to his bedside 10 hours earlier, continuing a vigil she wasn't sure how would end. She had a decision to make, and she had to make it soon. Should she give him up, a man who was once number eight on the world's most wanted list? Take him to a hospital to give him a fighting chance for survival? Or let the sickness take him slowly, with only Sydney to witness his last struggling breaths?

And what of herself? Was she already contaminated with whatever sickness that was already debilitating Sark? How was it that something was devastating the most resilient, stubbornly hard to kill person she had ever come across? How could it be that Sydney could never take him down, but some anonymous disease could? They were two evenly matched foes, her and Sark. If she lost him now, what was stopping it from killing her too?

Sydney leaned back in the chair, watching Sark lose consciousness once more.

_What was it about sleep that made the deadly look so innocent? Do I appear as childlike when I close my eyes? _

She didn't close her eyes to find out. She stayed awake and watched over him because she couldn't do anything else for him; because she knew he would have done the same for her. They couldn't afford to not trust each other for any longer.

So Sydney waited; waited for Sark to wake up and shatter the ridiculous illusion that she actually gave a damn.

Sark awoke 23 hours after he had suffered his initial relapse, the worst symptoms having subsided significantly. The blinding pain in his head had lessened into a dull throb, pulses of pain only coming every few of minutes. His vision had cleared to almost normal and upon sitting up he could see Sydney was asleep in an uncomfortable looking chair next to his bed, head lulled back at a most unflattering angle.

Sark looked at the digital clock next to Sydney's bed. He'd been out for almost a day, which was at least ten hours less than he's been unconscious for in his most recent episode before this one. At least that was an improvement. However, the time at which the episode had occurred had been most inconvenient and potentially deadly for the two of them. Sark had hoped the past six weeks without an episode meant he was going into remission. His confidence had led to an unacceptable mistake, one that almost cost him his life, as well as Sydney's. He had risked four people's lives by his lack of honesty, and Sydney had saved him anyway. She could have left him on the cold, hard floor of the medical facility, holding his head helplessly until the Germans put a bullet in it. She could've saved herself all this trouble and just killed him herself.

But she hadn't. He felt a peculiar feeling in his stomach as he wondered all the reasons why. He owed her complete honesty. He owed her a great many things and Sark hated being indebted.

_It shouldn't be hard to be truthful to her,_ Sark thought. He had never lied to her, not once in the many years of their illustrious history. True, he had withheld information. _Being withholding is not a crime._ However, when pressed, he had always been truthful with her. The stakes were higher now, he had more to lose; he had _the most_ he had ever had to lose. If there was a time to trust someone, it was now.

Still, the idea of bearing something this personal, something that left him completely helpless, that he had no control over, to confess this to _her_ of all people, filled him with a curious combination of dread and embarrassment. He heaved a frustrated sigh and put his thumb and forefinger over his temples, trying to rub the pain and anxiety away.

"You're awake," said Sydney in a soft voice. Sark's head jerked up to find Sydney staring at him, her eyes unnaturally bright against the shadows under her eyes. Her tone was slightly accusatory, yet there was something behind it that, unless he was mistaken, was something akin to concern. She cocked her head to one side and kneaded the skin around her neck as if rubbing out a kink. Sark stared at her busy hand instead of her eyes.

"You're feeling better," she asked, falling back into her peculiar habit of asking questions as if they were already fact. Sark glanced at the bedside table. It was littered with a bowl of melting ice chips and a damp rag. He forced himself to look her in the face. He didn't make a habit out of saying thank you, but when an occasion that called for one arose, he did it properly.

"Sydney," he began, easing the trepidation from his speech, "You didn't have to risk your own safety for mine. You could've left me there. It's as much as you'd expect from me I'm sure. But you didn't…and for that I thank you."

Sydney crossed her arms in front of her, looking less than pleased at his gratitude.

"What a lovely backhanded compliment", she said in a low voice, clearly tired. "Expect me to act like any half-decent person would, how kind of you." The corner of Sark's mouth twitched crooked as his temper flared, waiting for her to continue. She sighed heavily.

"I wouldn't expect you to leave me if the situation were reversed," she amended after a moment's hesitation. _She defies the notion that the more worn out you are, the older you look,_ thought Sark. Instead, she looked younger, with her knees pulled up to her chest, hey eyes half closed with exhaustion.

"You have to know I would have taken you with me if it was you in that situation," Sark said, the tone in his voice indicating that should have been obvious she know this. "I never would have left you behind; I trust that you know that by now."

Sydney nodded, resigned. "I know." After a moment, she pulled her legs from her chest and put them flat on the floor and put her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands.

"If we're going to do this together," she started, "we're going to need to trust each other." Sark shifted up in her bed.

"How exactly do you suppose we do that," Sark posed to her. "We don't quite have the relationship that warrants trust."

"We're just going to have to start being completely truthful to one another," she said simply, her tone hinting he had been anything but. "For example, you're going to tell me what exactly went down in that medical facility. Were you exposed to some kind of toxin? A chemical maybe? Or is this a long standing condition? Am I in danger of catching whatever you have?"

Sark bit his lip. He looked up at the ceiling as if looking for guidance, but really he was just wondering how in the hell he would tell her this. She'd be mad. Very mad. Sark knew Sydney threw pickaxes into people's thighs when she was mad.

"No, I wasn't exposed to some kind of chemical in the lab, as far as I know. And, for what it's worth, I don't think it's communicable."

"For what it's worth," Sydney interrupted snappishly. "It only would have been worth, oh I don't know, _my life_ if you had this disease all this time and it was contagious."

"Well _I'm_ still here, so obviously it isn't deadly. And _you're_ still here, which means it isn't infectious. It's just…inconvenient."

"So you knew!" Sydney stood up, pushing the chair backwards, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You knew there was something wrong with you and you came to me anyway? Knowing you could have compromised whatever we set out to so? You're a self-centered son of a bitch." She was shaking her head as she alternately pointed at him and paced the room. "I can't believe I let you into my house. How could I have though you could put your own selfish motives aside for one –"

"Selfish motives?" Sark exploded. He pushed himself off of the bed, which ended up being a more difficult task than he had expected. He faltered slightly, putting a hand on the headboard for balance. He knew she had seen him stagger, but didn't let it stop him. He faced her, refusing her the luxury of personal space.

"I'm being _selfish_? Coming here to you, helping to find your parents when I know there's something wrong with me, not to mention _financing_ this whole bloody escapade! You're being ridiculously ungrateful and pretentious, you realize that, right?"

Sydney didn't back down. Instead, she thrust her face mere centimeters from his, challenging him.

"If I'm so ungrateful and pretentious, why don't you just leave?" She whispered fiercely. "Isn't that what you're good at? Running away?"

He sneered at her insult, pushing the guilt he felt out of the forefront of his mind. He had always been the kind of person who regretted the things he hadn't done, rather than for the things he had. Why should he let her change that?

"You know why I'm not running away from this? Who got the safe key for you? Who got the file decrypted? Who shelled out their own cash to get this bloody search off the ground? Without me, you'd be sitting here all by yourself with no way to save your parents." He let the smug smile drift lazily to his face. "I'm not running away because I know you'd just come crawling back to me if I did."

She slapped him with all the energy she had left, which was still a sizeable amount, considering how little sleep she had gotten the past 24 hours. Sark's hand went instinctively went to his face, covering his cool hand over the heated imprint of her hand. The snarky smile had been wiped clean off his face, replaced with an open-mouthed gape of indignation.

"You slapped me!"

"Stop being such a jackass," she bit at him. "All I wanted was the truth and suddenly it's pissing contest over who is more important. My _parents_ are the most important here and we're going to need to put whatever it is between us aside for the time being." She sighed, softening her tone slightly. "I think I can do that, if you stop being such a pompous ass for two whole minutes."

Sark took his hand from his face and put it on his hip and regarded her skeptically. "I think I can do that…if you stop treating me like this ancillary, unimportant part of this mission. Also, not snapping at every little thing I say wouldn't hurt either."

Sydney regarded him coolly, as if by watching him she could tell how serious his statement was.

"I'll try," she finally agreed. "But I'm not sorry I slapped you."

Sark sat down on the bed. "I wouldn't expect you to be. When have you ever felt bad at causing me pain? I think you take advantage that I bruise so easily."

"If you bruise that easily, then you should have never gotten into this line of business," she replied wearily, the fight waning out of her. She sat next to him on the bed.

Sark chuffed softly, a small smile on his face. "Well it's not as if I had a choice."

Sydney glanced over at him, granting him a half smile. "No, I don't suppose you did."

Sark shifted next to Sydney, leaning back on the bed, his hands behind him. "The headaches started about four months ago."

It didn't take long to tell her about what had been happening to him. Ten minutes later she was staring at him, brows knitted in concentration.

"So the MRI's and cat scans showed no anomalies."

"None."

"And there's no way to lessen the effects. Migraine medicine? Something along those lines?"

"These aren't migraines. You saw how quickly they come on."

"Damn," Sydney stewed. She cupped her chin in her hands, thinking. "Maybe you should just -"

"Don't even think about pushing me to the sidelines," Sark interjected, before she could even suggest it. "Your feminine wiles, while effective, aren't going to cut it every time. Take for instance, this Dr. Carlyle. Considering her affinity for men young enough to be her sons, who do you think she'd be more willing to get close to? Unless you have some uncanny ability to grow male parts, you're going to need me. Besides, this headache came six weeks after the last one. They're becoming more and more infrequent."

Sydney let a beat pass, considering his argument.

"I don't suppose I have much of a choice," Sydney sighed. Sark nodded and a silence fell between them. There was something pressing on Sark's mind and he debated breaking the silence to ask her. But she had wanted him to be completely truthful with her and he had. If was going to know, he needed to ask her now.

"Sydney, if we're going to be truthful with one another, I need to ask you something. So, whatever you tell me, I'm going to take as fact."

Sydney felt a chill wash over her, already knowing what Sark was going to ask. She didn't know yet whether she was going to tell him the truth or not, despite his being honest with her. She had only told her father the whole truth of what happened with Vaughn. She'd be stupid not to consider that what happened then had to do with what was happening now. Withholding what happened with Vaughn could hinder their search for her parents, just as Sark's illness had done. When pressed, he had come clean.

And she needed to do the same.

Sark looked at his intertwined hands, then up at her upturned face.

"What exactly happened with Agent Vaughn?" Sydney stared right ahead, studying the knot on the wood of her closet door.

"If I tell you, you'll just have to let me tell you straight out, no interruptions. Deal?"

Sark nodded solemnly. "Deal."

"Vaughn asked me to marry him in Sovogda," Sydney began, her voice never betraying whatever emotions that were playing out in her heart. To Sark, it almost sounded as if she was briefing a mission, not discussing her dead lover.

"…and I said yes. The Covenant fell the night and I thought I was finally free. I thought I could leave, thought I could just walk away with Vaughn and live a normal life.

"We were traveling to Santa Barbara for our wedding when we were sideswiped by a tractor trailer. We escaped the car crash, miraculously only suffering some bumps and bruises. We extricated ourselves before the car exploded, but then men came out of the tractor trailer and chased us on to some train tracks and by that time, the men had surrounded us. Vaughn took 15 rounds in the chest. Then they knocked me out and when I woke up, his body was cold."

Sydney stopped. Sark could hear her trying to control her breathing, trying to remain in control. In his own mind his thoughts were electric; his mind connecting dots and lines between Sydney's story and his own unreliable brain. He thought the one thing he could always trust was himself; but now, now he wasn't so sure. He wasn't sure about anything anymore. He could only hope, and trust, that Sydney was telling him the truth. He had to be hallucinating, that scene at the carnival. There was simply no way it could be true.

"I somehow found a payphone and called my father. Vaughn's body was taken to the morgue. I was fine, but Dad insisted on taking me to a hospital just to make sure. That's when I found out."

She stopped again and he was startled to find tears rolling down her cheeks. He had never seen her cry, not ever. Sark's male brain was confounded, assaulted with contradictions. She's about to hit him one minute, and now she's telling him something so personal, it made her sob. Sydney was an open book right now, but he had no idea what page to turn to. So he waited.

_He didn't need to know this,_ she thought. _You don't owe him one damn thing._ Sydney took a deep breath and wiped what tears had escaped away with the back of her hand. She turned her head to him, expecting some kind of self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face at the sight of her so exposed, so open for judgment.

His eyes were so wide she could see exactly how impossibly blue they were; the shade of cornflowers and summer skies. It seemed so nonsensical that eyes so bright and childlike belonged to someone like Sark that it caught her off guard, and she found herself staring into them as she spoke.

"I found out I was pregnant."

Sark sat unblinking for a few moments, and then slowly nodded, silently urging her to continue. An accusation similar to hers about withholding important information was his initial reaction but he bit it back, knowing this was neither the time nor place. Sydney being pregnant would be a liability; a liability that offered no negotiations, no leeway for mistakes. Looking at her face he could see there was something else, something still pressing on her conscience.

"After the funeral, I went to his apartment and started going through his things, boxing up some for storage, taking his old clothes to shelters, things like that. There was a door embedded in his closet wall, with stairs descending far beneath his basement. It led to a room the size of a small gymnasium, its walls plastered with pictures. Thousands of photographs of international criminals, foreign dignitaries, government officials, presidents of industry and banking, Mafioso, political figures and spies; pictures of my family, Nadia, my mother…there was even a picture of you and Sloane. There were filing cabinets upon filing cabinets of bank statements, coded messages, weapon schematics, building blueprints…along with mission briefings from a very secretive syndicate by the name of Prophet 5. There was a mission briefing for a man named Andre Michaux."

Sydney paused again, but quickly started back up again, as if she didn't want to run out of steam by the time she got the whole thing out. Sark had never heard of Prophet 5, or Andre Michaux, but the mention of both sent unexplainable chills up his spine.

"Andre Michaux was sent in 1994 by the unnamed leader of Prophet 5 to America to infiltrate the CIA and become an officer. After a few years of deep cover, he was to leak information to the terrorist organization SD-6 that one of their operatives broke their confidentiality protocol and confessed her standing within the organization to her fiancé. A FTL-trained assassin named Martin Shepard killed the fiancé…_my_, a man named Daniel Hecht as Michaux had instructed the director of SD-6 to do.

"According to the personality construct Prophet 5 had drawn up on me, after my fiancé was murdered, I was expected to turn against SD-6 and offer myself up as a double agent, which obviously I did. Michaux was waiting there to debrief me and to initiate the second tier of his mission: get me to trust him and eventually become his wife.

"All that time Vaughn was pretending…lying…about everything. And I had fallen for it. I was carrying his child and all I could think about was wishing I had killed him before he had gone and gotten himself murdered."

Sydney had stopped crying and had taken on some of the steely resolve he had seen in the plane and earlier in the conversation. Sark could hardly hear what she was saying; his mind was whirling with the realization of Sydney's confession. Michael Vaughn…Andre Michaux. How could he have not known?

Sark was torn between pity and fury at her. All the information could have been helpful before now; yet, he knew it hadn't been easy to confide in someone like him. A killer, an enemy through and through; a man who had poisoned her sister, consorted with her terrorist mother, aligned himself with an organization that had harvested her eggs and had taken two years of her life. He couldn't blame her for not telling him, he couldn't blame her at all. When it was just the two of them now, sitting on her flowered bedspread, they could no longer blame one another for what they had done before this moment. They could only move on and put trust in one another and in their mutual determination for the same shared end.

"There was no documentation of what the endgame of this charade was, of what Michaux was trying to accomplish by gaining my trust. I called my father and Dixon to send a team over to Vaughn's house, but I was knocked unconscious before the team could arrive. Whoever knocked me out carried me outside and by the time the team arrived the bunker and the house were burned; destroyed, along with all evidence a man named Andre Michaux ever existed. The man I thought was Michael Vaughn was a figment of some underground organization's endgame and I was carrying his child. The sense of betrayal, the anger I felt was…is…impossible for you to understand. The fact that this imposter, this liar gave something so precious to me was impossible to understand that I needed to get away to make sense of it…so I moved away. I quit the CIA, I told my father I needed to get away and needed some space, and I moved here. He was very concerned but he didn't stop me. I didn't think anything of his calls on my answering machine. I thought he would understand that I needed some space to think over things.

"A week after finding this place and moving in, I miscarried. I didn't eat for days; weeks went by in a blur. Five weeks went by and I thought I could call my father, I thought I could tell him, I thought it would help. I couldn't get in contact with him, not at the office, not at his house. Dixon told me he said he was taking a few weeks vacation. I was still worried, and tried getting in contact with anyone I thought would know where he went.

"Four days later I tackled you on my foyer." Sydney exhaled, any emotion she had shown now completely purged from her system. She couldn't believe she confessed everything to Sark, of all people. And yet, looking at him now, she couldn't think if telling what had happened to anyone else. He wouldn't pass judgment on her. He wouldn't try to change what had happened. He wouldn't try to comfort her. He would just listen and accept her and what had transpired and they would move on. He was perfect in that respect and for the first time, Sydney was actually glad Sark had found her.

Sark was almost too stunned to speak. It was entirely too much information to comprehend in one sitting. Andre Michaux, Michael Vaughn, miscarriage…these all dealt with things Sark didn't know how to respond to, couldn't quite comprehend. He stuck with things he could understand.

"So, do you feel up to, I mean to say, are you able to continue with what we need to do?" Sark asked her cautiously. He didn't want to indicate she was in any way incapable of continuing, especially in light of her confession.

"I'm fine. I mean, I'm not. Not really. But I'm fine to do this. I need to do this."

Sark nodded. Not quite knowing where to look, he glanced down at his legs. His eyes widened.

"Sydney?"

"Yeah?"

"If we're being completely honest, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Are these the pants I wore to the medical facility?"

A beat passed and although Sark was still looking at his legs, he thought he heard a smile in her voice.

"No. I didn't want you getting blood on my sheets."

Sark hooked a thumb into the waistband of a pair of sweatpants and lifted it from his stomach. He was a bit disgusted, but relieved to find he was still wearing the same pair of underwear he had put on the day before. At least he still had something left to the imagination.

"And here I thought I'd have to take out to dinner to get you to ever take my pants off."

She didn't say anything and Sark thought he had made her mad, or worse, made her start crying again. He looked up and was horrified to see she was shaking, hand over her mouth. He was about to go on the defensive when her hand fell away from her face and he saw she was laughing. She fell back on the bed, holding her stomach, her body shaking with guffaws and hiccups. Sark crossed his arms over his chest, his lips pouted in mock hurt.

"Well I don't see what's so funny about you taking advantage of me while I was unconscious, Sydney. I'd feel violated if you weren't so damn…Sydney! Stop laughing! It's not the least bit funny…

But Sydney just couldn't stop laughing and God did it feel good. How long had it been since she laughed? Weeks? Months? It didn't matter, the cork was out of the bottle now and she was hysterical; laughing so hard she was crying. The whole situation was surreal but in that one moment, it didn't matter they had once regarded each other as bitter adversaries; it didn't matter that she had just confessed something to him she had barely come to accept herself; it didn't matter Sark was secretly pleased he had made her smile. So he watched her with his arms crossed and his face pink as she lost herself in a few moments peace.


	6. Chapter 5, Part 2

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sark's past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Part two of chapter five, including the soundtrack. Read it, read it now!

* * *

Sydney and Sark went over the video footage of the disk dead drop they had set up prior to going to the medical facility after they had both had time to rest. It was completely wiped, most likely by some kind of concentrated electronic pulse, as the TVs in the electronics store near the dead drop site hadn't been affected. The Messenger had expected the two of them to set up surveillance and had foiled their efforts, putting them one step behind the unidentified terrorist once again. They hadn't received any word on dead dropping the Project Smoke test tubes, so while they waited for another red envelope, they decided to act on the one advantage they had: Dr. Anabelle Carlyle and her lascivious vices.

Carlyle went through a well known Russian Madam known only as Katinka to secure high class, well trained boy toys to spend her nights with. At the age of 45, sharing a bed with men more than half her age was her own prerogative, but it was a prerogative that could be exploited to extract information.

The two spies would travel to Spain after a good night's sleep. Carlyle was attending a week long medical conference and had already set up an appointment with one of Madam Katinka's young male escorts. Sydney had already called Carlyle, who had never met the famous Madam in person, posing as Katinka to set up a personal meeting with the Louisiana-born doctor. Sydney had wanted to wait until later in the week to set up the meeting, hoping to wait and see if Sark's condition would worsen. Sark had adamantly refused and after having him agree to one condition, Sydney set up the meet.

He had told her he would go back to sleeping on the futon and Sydney agreed that he should…starting when they got back from Spain. She was still wary of quick recovery after seeing how bad he could get. Without much argument on his part, Sark agreed to sleep another night in Sydney's bed, as long as he knew it was the last time it would happen. Sydney spent the night on the floor of her bedroom with an air mattress and a pillow, despite Sark's many insinuations of how large and comfortable the bed was for two.

The wig was icy blond, the color his hair had been when he was a young child. The longest strands in the front fell into his eyes, which were fixed on Sydney in an angry glare.

"I am a respectable businessman. I don't do disguises. Especially wigs." Sydney tugged on the side of his blond coiffure, straightening it. She stepped back and studied him with discerning eye. She smiled, tipping her fedora-topped head to one side to take in her recreation of Sark.

"Despite what people may tell you, you do not look like you're 17 years old. I needed to make you look younger. And quit complaining. What was my one condition upon coming here tonight?"

Sark sighed.

"If you agreed to let me out of bed, the least I could do was wear a wig. I like your outfit, by the way. I feel dominated already."

Sydney made the executive decision that she needn't wear a wig on every single mission and tucked her wavy brown hair under a black fedora. Paired with a pair of pinstriped wide legged trouser pants and a sleeveless tight-fitting top with a plunging neckline, she felt she could easily pass as a high-class Madam. Subjecting Sark to a wig had given him a slightly brooding look, and provided to be mildly amusing to Sydney in addition to making him look quite a bit younger.

"Good. I don't want to hear any complaining from you about your disguise. If you knew what I've had to wear through the years, you'd shut your mouth before I made you wear lingerie. According to the dossier, Carlyle likes her male friends to be submissive, so let her do all the talking. Do as she tells you and do it only when she tells you to. Your name is Ari Sigurdsson and you are from Hofn, Iceland. You are 17 years old. I recruited you eight months ago while visiting a client. Oh, remember to be on the lookout for my signal, don't forget why we're here."

She was smoothing out his shirt, white and formfitting, which still had a little of the clothes hanger indentations in its shoulders, as it was only bought a few hours ago.

"I remember the plan, Sydney. I did help put it together after all."

Sydney couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. Playing an alias with someone who has rarely worked in disguise could prove problematic, especially if you hadn't been working with the partner long enough to know their subtle body language meant during such an intense mission. She fixed Sark with a firm stare.

"Are you going to be able to do this?"

Sark made an incredulous sounding noise in the back of his throat.

"Despite never being this elaborately disguised before," Sark gestured to himself, "I am, above all, professional. These leather pants you made me wear make me feel _very_ professional. Tell me, did you ever put Marshall or Agent Weiss in leather pants?"

"Dixon wore them on a mission once. I think he ended up keeping them, actually."

"Really? I never would have pictured that."

Sydney grunted irritably, looking at her watch.

"I certainly hope you wouldn't picture that. It's show time, kid. Let's go."

Sark rolled his eyes but nodded. He exited the cab and walked around its front to open the door for Sydney. She exited, dressed in all black and looking very chic and regal as they strode past the long line of people trying to get into the club. The bouncer took a look at the two of them and quickly opened the red velvet rope, letting them pass by without so much as asking for an I.D. If for tonight only the two of them were every bit the high society celebrities they set out to be, feeling the hot gaze of the envious social climbers that waited outside the club. "Mojado" was the watering hole for the single scene, young and old alike. The older highbrow clientele were constantly on the prowl for the young and beautiful and the young and beautiful could only hope to land an older, rich socialite.

Sydney pulled Sark aggressively by his shirt front, wading them both through the throngs of hangers-on and through the entrance of the club. Inside, the walls were black with lighted waterfalls falling from the tall ceilings over tiers of dance floors and VIP rooms. Instead of couches, the sitting areas were lined with beds for the hip singletons to lounge and look beautiful upon.

Sark was amazed about how quickly Sydney took to the identity change. She was immediately Katinka, a brazen and bossy Madam from the Motherland. She didn't just walk, she strut hips first past the lustful eyes of men and women alike, looking bored as she shoved them out of her way. The people left in her wake looked stunned as she passed, their eyes following her every step, beholding her in their shamelessly carnal stares.

It took Sark a few steps but he quickly followed suit into character. Within seconds he was the confident yet subservient plaything. With the downcast of his eyes and the languid pace of his step, he fell a few steps behind Sydney, causing her to turn and yank harder on his shirt to follow.

"Come, Ari!" She commanded, her Russian accent brusque and her tone forceful. He nodded but narrowed his eyes defiantly at her so only she could see. She gave him a smug, shit-eating grin and turned again to shove more unfortunately placed people out of her way. There was a small, wicked part of Sydney that really enjoyed pushing Sark around like a rag doll. There was no harm indulging in that this one time.

He smirked, but quickly returned to his wounded, obedient expression, wondering how many men and even women would pay to be treated so shabbily by such a beautiful and domineering woman.

Sydney scoped the crowd, her eyes sweeping for Carlyle. She wasn't a woman you likely miss in a crowd. At 45 she looked better than woman half her age. She had gotten a rhinoplasty some 15 years earlier, but had not had any work done since, according to her dossier. It seemed she had a natural tendency to not only age gracefully but also beautifully, to the envy of woman around her, no doubt. With long jet black hair that might have looked ridiculous on any other woman her age, she looked more the part of a retired model or actress than a wildly successful surgeon. With her looks and successful career, she could have had any man she wanted. But after several failed relationships with older, illustrious professionals she found spending her evenings with a different younger male gave her the most freedom and enjoyment.

_And who could blame her, really,_ thought Sydney. _When relationships end and keep on ending, what else besides being young and good at what he does could you look for in a man? If that was enough for you, why the hell not._

"Hey there, Katinka," Sark whispered. "The good doctor is at 3 o'clock."

Sydney turned 90 degrees to her right, glimpsing a shock of black hair through a sea of blond debutantes. Dr. Anabelle Carlyle sat alone on a small, secluded bed near the bar, her long legs crossed in front of her and she leaned back on one hand and sipped a glass of red wine with the other. Wearing a clingy, short white dress set against the black satin sheets she looked like a starlet from old Hollywood, classically statuesque and impossibly smoldering. Sydney steered her and Sark toward the doctor, putting extra swagger in her step. Sark followed dutifully behind, wondering how far this charade would have to go.

"Hello Dr. Carlyle," Sydney purred, proffering the woman a down turned hand. Carlyle took it to pull herself up off the bed, and the two women kissed each other on both cheeks. The two sat down on the bed. Sark was about to join them when he met Sydney's eye. It was ever so subtle, but she shook her head from side to side.

_Don't do anything without being told to first, right. Not thinking for yourself is harder than I previously anticipated._

Sark stood in front of the two women as a silent observer, an object, a form of currency more than an actual person.

"Madam Katinka…it is a pleasure to meet you. I am quite a fan of your services." She was speaking to Sydney but she was looking Sark up and down, her facial expression never betraying whether or not she found him to be an acceptable purchase.

"As one of my most valued clients, I wanted to meet with you and express how much your continued loyalty to my boys is appreciated. As a token of my appreciation, I wanted to bring you Ari. He is my new favorite. Come Ari, let the beautiful woman take a look at you," Sydney cooed, her accent slipping effortlessly off her tongue.

Resisting the almost impossible urge to raise his eyebrow mockingly, Sark moved closer to the two women. Carlyle grabbed Sark by the belt loop and tugged him closer, lifting the hem of his shirt to expose his abdomen. Sark's eyes widened and he shot a pointed look over Carlyle's shoulder at Sydney, who simply shrugged.

_If he only knew I've done things like this and worse under cover,_ thought Sydney, reveling a bit in Sark's position as an object.

"He's very lean, I like that," Carlyle commented absently, drinking Sark in like a roving predator.

"He's a natural," Sydney continued, "He's become my number one asked for commodity since he came to work with me. His repeat business requests are the most I've ever had. Being from Iceland, it gets very cold in the winter, and I can tell you he was coming up with very creative ways to keep the Icelandic ladies warm on cold winter nights before I found him. He's only blossomed under my tutelage, and I guarantee you will be pleased with his performance."

Carlyle continued to look interested, but Sark was beginning to get slightly anxious. It couldn't be determined how quickly Carlyle would make her move once she got Sark alone, so Sydney could not determine how far Sark would need to go before Sydney created a distraction. It was not as if he doubted his own talents in this particular area. Like with any other task, he was tenacious and always saw the job through to the end, with satisfactory if not exceptional results. Despite Sydney's assurances that he wouldn't need to proceed past the point of indecency, he was not experienced in the area of whoring himself out to attractive older women. He could seduce them on his own, but there were rules and orders to be followed performing as a service he was in no way used to, and one slip could result in exposing himself…in more ways than one.

"I have no doubt he'll live up to your generous praise," Carlyle murmured, finally turning her attention back to Sydney. She brought the wine glass up to her lips, the ruby liquid reflecting off her black eyes a blood red shine. "How much will he cost for the entire night?"

"As a token of my appreciation for your continued loyalty, please enjoy Ari's companionship as gratis. He is my gift to you."

Carlyle looked pleased, her smoky eyes now fixed on Sydney.

"Thank you for such a lovely token of appreciation," Carlyle thanked Sydney silkily. She put her glass down on an end table and bit her lip, giving Sydney the once over.

"I don't usually do this, but I'd love for you to join us. It would be a shame for a woman so beautiful to go home alone when I have such a spacious suite right upstairs."

Sydney looked surprised for a brief moment but quickly smiled.

"Your offer is one I can hardly resist. Unfortunately, I do have some business to attend to later this evening. If the circumstances were different, however, I do believe I could be persuaded to go against my policy of mixing business with pleasure."

Carlyle heaved a sigh of disappointment. "That is such a shame." She reached into her Chanel handbag, pulling out a small card. She rooted around the small purse, pulling out a pen. Writing something on the back of the card she handed it back to Sydney, letting her finger caress Sydney's hand as she pulled back. "If you change your mind, my suite number is on the back. I feel Ari and I will be pulling an all-nighter, so feel free to stop by whenever you're pesky business is attended to."

Sydney took the business card and slipped it into her cleavage for safe keeping.

"I will certainly keep it in mind." Sydney stood, taking Carlyle's hand and kissing it. She faced Sark, her four inch heels raising them eye to eye. She took his face in her one hand, squeezing his cheeks slightly, causing his lips to purse. She looked into his eyes, trying to convey something. Sark wrinkled his brow questioningly, trying to get her to elaborate.

"Now Ari, you be good." She turned from Sark to Carlyle. "Sometime Ari forgets who is boss, so you just have to slap him around a little bit." Sydney slapped Sark's cheek lightly, winking. She looked at him and put a hand to her face as if taking him in but tapped her ear subtly with one finger. Sark remembered they were on comms, and nodded sheepishly at Carlyle, as if he was admitting to his insolence.

"_Do svidaniya_, Doctor. Perhaps I will be seeing you soon." Sydney turned on her heel, leaving Sark to fend for his own. Sydney weaved into the crowd and activated her comm.

"Change of plans. This might be easier than I thought it would be. Follow Carlyle up to her suite and try to keep your pants on for five minutes. I'll take care of the rest."

Sark heard Sydney's transmission but had no idea what she was up to.

_Judging by the way the good Doctor is assessing my assets, I don't think I'll get five minutes_, Sark mused to himself, watching Carlyle as she drained the last droplets of her wine and stood. She was an impressive woman, strong and disarmingly attractive. Her long tanned legs stretched out miles in front of her as he offered his hand to help her up.

"How courteous," she commented smoothly, accepting his hand and standing up. She held his hand with one hand and with the other hand ran a finger along the deep lines of his hand, tracing his palm, making it tingle and itch. "Mmm…soft, but strong. Very nice…bodes well for later. Tell me, Ari, when you lived in Iceland, did you work with your hands often?"

"You would find me more often in the bedroom than in the barn," Sark told her in a soft Icelandic accent. He gave her a small smile, his eyes hooded and mischievous.

She chuckled low and breathy, tracing her fingernails up to his wrist and the sensitive underside of his forearm. "Like I said, bodes well for later."

She took his hand and led him to an elevator. She pushed the button for the seventh floor and the door closed, not before Sark caught a glimpse of Sydney ascending a set of stairs across the club. The elevator door chimed shut while Carlyle's hand reached behind and squeezed his ass, nodding approvingly. Her hand stayed there as the elevator ascended, simply resting, and Sark stared ahead, not knowing quite where to look or what to do. If this were a normal, everyday rendezvous, Sark knew exactly what he'd do. But now, knowing it wasn't real, knowing Sydney was out in the club somewhere, knowing when the night was over he would be sleeping alone ruined the fact that a beautiful woman couldn't keep her hands off him.

The elevator reached the seventh floor and Carlyle grabbed him by the belt loop, leading him down the hall. An obscure concern of her ripping his belt loop off crossed Sark's mind, and he knew then the night was doomed. If this woman was so hot for him she ripped off any part of his clothes, he should be thrilled.

_It's all Sydney's fault,_ Sark rationalized. _If I was freelancing, I'd be able to glean at least some pleasure from this. But no, I know that she's out there, waiting to bust in and ruin a little business with pleasure. If anyone needed a side of pleasure with their business, it was Sydney Bristow._

All the while cursing Sydney in his head, he was lead into Suite 72. Large and luxurious, it boasted the same black walls as the club below, one wall being completely covered by a backlit waterfall, cascading and bubbling down its entire expanse. The round bed was bathed in turquoise colored satin as were several armless chairs. She threw him forcibly onto one of the chairs and (in Sark's opinion) using an amazing bit of dexterity, she positioned one high-heeled foot in the middle of his chest, digging the point of the shoe not-too-softly into his sternum.

"I'm going to go gather some toys for us to play with. Be a dear and take that pesky shirt off and be good until I get back. Alright?"

Sark nodded slowly and felt the shooting pain in his chest subside as she pulled back and retreated to the bathroom. Sark ripped his tight tee-shirt off hastily and pressed on his comm.

"This woman is going to violate me nine ways from Sunday if you don't let me in on whatever plan you've concocted," Sark whispered, hoping Sydney was close.

"Keep your pants on," Sydney's voice squawked over Sark's comm., "you just concentrate on being docile and submissive. I'll take care of the rest."

"That's _exactly_ the problem, I don't know how much longer my pants are going to remain on my person." Sark heard the bathroom door open. "Hurry!" he hissed quietly, and waited for Carlyle to return. She turned the corner from the bathroom, a box of "toys" in hand.

"Oh, Ari, Ari, Ari…" Carlyle chastised softly, pulling a riding crop out of the box and then placing the box on the floor. She slapped her hand with the crop, pulling it through her fingers. "Tell Mistress Anabelle…are you a bad boy?"

Sark shook his head. "No, Mistress."

"Lies!" Carlyle said roughly, swatting him on the chest with the riding crop. A red welt formed instantly and Sark winced, sucking his breath in at the pain and holding it.  
"If you answer truthfully this time," she told him huskily, dragging the crop around his bare chest "I might be a little nicer and unburden you of those pesky, tight fitting pants of yours. Tell me, Ari. Have you been bad?"

Sark hesitated and Carlyle smacked him with the riding crop again. He flinched, and let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Yes, Mistress." She smiled wickedly, eyes flashing.

"Well then, since we're being truthful now…" she stepped forward and to undo the button his pants when there was a knock on the suite door. Carlyle stopped, her hands at his fly.

"Don't move," she commanded, throwing the riding crop on to the bed. She sauntered over to the door, unlocked it and stood back.

Sydney stood in the doorway, her hand leaning lazily on the doorframe, her head cocked to one side.

"Business can be rescheduled. I felt this was an opportunity too good to pass up." She looked past Carlyle to Sark, shirtless and welted. Even from across the room, Sydney could see Sark's eyes burned electric blue against his pale skin as he sat in the aqua satin-covered chair. Her mind unconsciously went back to her bedroom when she confided in him, how his eyes seemed so impossibly blue. She quickly purged the random thought from her head, glancing over at Carlyle with a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"I see someone was being a naughty boy," she said. "May I come in?"

"Absolutely."

Sydney ambled into the room, her simple presence electrifying the air. Carlyle was already distracted by her, unable to keep her eyes off Sydney's undeniable curves. Sydney stopped a few feet away from Sark, lifted one finger, and beckoned him, holding out her arm and curling her index finger seductively.

"It is so hot in here, Ari. Doctor Carlyle looks a bit flustered. Why don't you relieve her of that lovely dress?" With Carlyle's back to him, Sark's eyes went wide as he met Sydney's, his one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth rising with amused incredulity. He blinked once, twice, and dutifully walked forward, running his fingertips up the side of Carlyle's arm, causing her to turn around and face him. He put a thumb under the strap of her white, slinky dress.

"May I?" he asked, his voice childishly hopeful. She chuckled, low in the throat.

"My, my, how the tables have turned. You may."

Stepping closer to the doctor, Sark gently pulled the strap down over her shoulder, exposing her shoulder and collarbone. He leaned in close to her neck, inhaling the rose-petal scent of her perfume and in that moment he thought of Sydney's shampoo and how it smelled like orange candy. He looked up and his eyes locked on Sydney's for a terrifyingly long second. The gun was already at her side, the safety off. His lips danced over Carlyle's collarbone, eliciting a soft moan from the doctor and Sark wondered, looking into her eyes right now, if Sydney had ever given herself up to such a moan. He wondered if he could make Sydney Bristow give in like that.

Sydney had pulled the gun she had hid between the back of her pants and the small of her back intending to cock the trigger, gaining the advantage of surprise while Carlyle was momentarily distracted. His eyes bore into hers, momentarily distracting her. The look that passed between them only lasted for a second, maybe two. But Sydney felt something in that single moment, a passing but instantaneous reaction. It was not a cohesive thought; it was more a strange, foreign wave of doubt and uncertainty. A stab of disquieting confusion, a fleeting agitation passed through her body.

There was no room for confusion, no room for hesitation and she felt the steadying presence of the gun, smooth and warm in her palm. The moment had already passed, and she raised the gun to the back of Carlyle's head.

Sark's lips stopped their soft assault on the doctor's neck, eyeing down the barrel of Sydney's pistol.

"Just for the record, this was fun, love," he breathed in Carlyle's ear, his English accent falling back into his voice. She heard the trigger click back as Sark gently turned her around. He stepped back as Carlyle looked resolutely past the gun and at Sydney, the doctor's face somewhere between frustration and disappointment.

"Fun's over, Dr. Carlyle," Sydney deadpanned, the Russian cadence dropped like a hot coal. "I think its time we start being honest with one another."

"Who wasn't being honest?" Carlyle bit back, arms crossed over her chest.

"Sit on the bed", Sydney commanded. The doctor obliged, crossed her legs demurely as she stared down gun's barrel.

"Look in her box of toys," Sydney told Sark, who had wandered off to the side, letting the girls have their words. "If she has a whole box of kinky shit, she most likely has handcuffs." Sark sighed and rolled his eyes, no longer terribly keen on following Sydney's demands. He fished around the box, coming up with two pairs of black fur-lined handcuffs with matching key ring.

Sark unlocked the handcuffs, slipping each of Carlyle's hands in a separate pair of cuffs while latching the opposite sides to the bedposts, sufficiently debilitating her movement. He tossed the key ring down the hallway into the bathroom, heaving them clink on the tiled floor. Sydney held the gun a foot away from her captive, all business now.

"Now, tell me what you know about Prophet 5." Carlyle looked from Sydney to Sark, and back to Sydney.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Carlyle replied drolly. Sydney cocked her head to one side.

"Oh really? Well, how would you feel if it got out to the medical community that in addition to being a brilliant neurologist, you also frequently pay male prostitutes to cater to your deviant sexual demands?"

"There's nothing deviant about what I do."

"No, not really. But that's not what the newspaper will say. So, let me rephrase my previous question. Is there any reason why a terrorist organization would be interested in your breakthrough neurological procedure?"

Carlyle's eyes shifted away from Sydney's face, suddenly uncomfortable. Sark sat back on the plush satin chair, put his feet up on the bed and leaned back and crossed his hands over the back of his head, looking thoroughly interested in what Carlyle had to say.

"Like I said, I don't know anything about this Prophet 5 per say, but…I can't say I've been entirely truthful about my procedure. But, if I tell you, you have to promise not to let it leak to the press, along with any of that other deviant nonsense. I'm in a place now where I can enjoy myself, and I don't care to get caught up in a scandal. Can you agree to that?"

Sydney looked at her skeptically. "Fine, sure. Tell us what you know." Sark glanced at Sydney, wondering where she got off offering Carlyle immunity.

"Well, if you must know, I was blackmailed."

"Oh yeah, you look real put out with all this money and sex you're getting."

"If you kindly shut your face, I'll tell you all about it." Carlyle gave Sydney a withering stare and Sydney waved her on, getting impatient.

"Thank you. If we're going to start from the beginning, I'll tell you that I didn't grow up with a lot of money. I know I wanted to go into medicine but unfortunately my family was not wealthy in any way, shape, or form. Needless to say, I put myself through college and medical school doing some things I'm not exactly proud of.

"Years later, after I graduated from Harvard Medical School, I thought I had located any and all photographic or video evidence of this part of my past. Flash forward until about three years ago, a man confronted me with pictures of my risqué past and said he had a proposition for me. He said not only would be publish these photos if I did not agree to his condition; he would start picking off members of my family, one by one.

"I didn't see how I had a choice, so I was taken to a private medical facility, someplace in Eastern Europe. I can't say exactly where because I have no idea, alright? I was introduced to an elderly surgeon they called Jurgen. For the next 2 weeks, Jurgen showed me and made me learn a procedure…the procedure I have said to have "invented". He said he had been performing it since the 1970's but only in a governmental capacity. Tested and tried on POW's and such. He confided that he had been diagnosed with a rare, rapidly spreading skin cancer called Merkel cell carcinoma. It spreads to other parts of the body at an extremely rapid rate, meaning he didn't have much time to pass this information on.

"Obviously, I mastered the procedure and I was allowed to return to the United States to introduce the new technology and to teach it to others on the condition that I am available to perform the procedure at any given time.

"Months passed and the procedure was extremely successful patients with Tourettes and Parkinson's disease. I made a lot of money teaching others how to master it. Then, one night, the man who originally recruited my services came to me in the middle of the night at my home and demanded I perform the procedure on someone. However, instead of putting _in_ the normal electromagnetic nodes I use in the procedure, he brought me people who had had the procedure done years before, to check on the implant after years of being embedded in the brain, make sure it was still working properly. Maybe it was because technology was not as good thirty years ago or maybe they had just modified the procedure since these patients had been treated, but the electromagnetic nodes in their brains looked different than the ones I used.

"And no, I do not know what the old microchip was or what it did, before you even ask. My first nightly patient like that was a woman, around 30 years of age. And it continued, varying men and women anywhere from 18 to 35 years old. I never got any specifics on the patients, only that I make sure the electromagnetic node was working properly. The last time I did one of these nightly consultations was about four months ago. African American woman, around 25 years old.

"Listen," Carlyle's tone changed, switching from clinical terseness to something slightly pleading. "This procedure helps thousands of people each year live normal, healthy lives. No one will believe you if you go around telling everyone that I hadn't invented it myself. For all the people its helped, would you honestly want to mar the my reputation and by proxy, the reputation of the procedure?"

Sydney and Sark glanced at each other, trying to gauge what the other thought. After a few moments their gaze broke, both looking increasingly annoyed.

"Do you know the name of this man, this man who recruited you?" Sark finally asked, not exactly relishing the idea of putting the doctor's reputation in danger. In truth, the procedure was extraordinary and did help many people regain healthy, normal lives. The way in which she learned the procedure and her continued fraternizing with those who taught it to her was the problem, not the procedure nor the doctor herself.

"I didn't know his name at the time I was taken to Eastern Europe," Carlyle admitted. "He is a talkative son of a bitch, I'll tell you that. So it didn't take much time after I returned to the U.S. to look up some of the things he had babbled to me. Finding out who he was didn't take too long or require too much effort."

"And?"

"Cole. McKenas Cole. Some freelance lapdog doing the dirty work of larger, more nefarious entities. Do you know him?"

Sark groaned in his chair, leaning his head back against the cool fabric. Sydney stared at the doctor for a few moments before responding.

"…are you serious?"

"Completely. I take it that you know him?" Carlyle looked slightly amused, despite being strapped down and having her control relinquished the ex-Madam Katinka.

"You could say that," Sydney answered, her free hand massaging her temple. This whole endeavor had given her a headache and trying to work out all these details wasn't helping matters much. She lowered the gun, glaring at Carlyle through squinted lids.

"Just know we'll be watching you, no matter where you go. And if you get a call from Cole, we're going to know about it. Expect to hear from us soon." She turned to leave but paused, turning on her heel and leaning in close to Carlyle's face.

"After finding out what kind of filth McKenas Cole is, the kind of people he works for, how could you continue working for him? Why wouldn't you go to the CIA or the FBI with what you knew?"

Carlyle laughed in Sydney's face.

"And implicate myself in the process? I'm sure that's _exactly_ what you would've done in my position. I'd rather give hope to the millions of people with these devastating diseases than rip away their one chance at normalcy. Not to mention living _my_ life as well."

Sydney's face was pure loathing, red and strained.

"You are a despicable human being."

Carlyle suddenly shifted forward and even though her hands were bound, caught Sydney's lips with her own. Sydney leaped back with a yell, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Kiss, kiss," Carlyle sneered and Sydney slapped the side of her head with the butt of her firearm, knocking the doctor unconscious.

Sark had been staring at the women's fray with increasing amusement. Sydney's swipe at the doctor seemed a bit premature to Sark, who was just beginning to enjoy their sexy spat. Sydney looked down at her hand with the gun, staring at it for a moment, and then quickly lifted the hem of her shirt to clean off the fingerprints. She tossed the gun into a corner and glared at Sark. He was still sitting back in his chair, hands on the back of his head, with a content look on his face like he was watching a Friday-night contender's boxing match.

Sydney quickly looked around and then walked over next to Sark's chair, leaned down, and picked up Sark's forgotten shirt. She threw the shirt at him, catching him in the face.

"Put your clothes on, we're going." Sark breathed huffily from underneath his shirt, finally disentangling himself and pulling his head through and pulling it over his exposed chest.

"Yes, sir," he mock saluted, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "Though next time, I think I should be the one in charge. You're not very nice." Sark was just beginning to enjoy himself. Sure, it was a mission and needless to say they were playing aliases and of course, it was a serious matter.

_Levity was not a crime,_ Sark thought. _Or at least, not one that Sydney perpetrated herself it seemed._

He shrugged the shirt back on and followed her out of the room and into the hallway.

"We're not supposed to be nice. We're supposed to get down to business. Its how you get things done."

"You know what they say, Madam Katinka. 'You attract more bees with honey than with vinegar.'"

"Yeah, you looked like you were about two minutes from being intimated acquainted with honey. And don't call me Madam Katinka. The mission is finished."

"Yes, but you see, I don't much mind being bossed around by you when you're a Madam. It's when you boss me around and you're Sydney that it gets grating on the nerves."

"Huh. What do you know? I like you a whole lot better when you're listening to me without backtalk. You should be Ari all the time."

"If that's the case, we should just play 'Madam and the underage male prostitute' at home. I think we'll find each other more tolerable that way."

They reached the elevator and Sark pressed the button to go down. Sydney leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"First of all, it isn't _your_ home. It's _my_ home, and I'm being kind enough to let you stay. Secondly, you're a pervert. We're done talking for the night."

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. They both walked in and leaned on the back wall, their likenesses against the mirrored walls reflecting two strangers.

"Is it safe to assume we'll be paying McKenas Cole a visit in the near future?' Sark asked her, leaning forward to push the button. The elevator lurched downward, the bass pumping loudly as they descended to the club.

"I think that's a fairly safe assumption, yes. I thought I said we were done chatting for this evening?"

"Yes, you did, but I often forget who is boss. Isn't that what you told the good doctor?" The elevator doors opened and they were once again amongst the beautiful and young, music thumping, sex in the air.

"McKenas Cole, of all people," Sark grumbled. They watched the crowd for a moment, both playing the night over in their minds. "Oh, how I do love reunions."

"Don't we all."

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Five

(I'd just like to point out this chapter's soundtrack has some of my favorite tunes featured thus far. Hawksley Workman is one of my FAVORITE artists of all time, and "So Contagious" and "Junkie" are such awesome songs I can't even stand it. If you need any uploaded again, please ask and thou shalt receive!)

1. "Shoot Your Gun", by 22-20's. **Listen to when:** Sydney is escaping the medical facility with an unconscious Sark.

Lyrics: _once you had a reason  
and once you had a place  
you had it all and laid it all to waste  
and I know you hate to need us  
but why'd you need to hate?  
and where'd you learn to shoot without restraint?_

2. "Settle Down Circus" by Kittens and Unicorns. **Listen to when:** Sark hallucinates about the carnival.

Lyrics aren't that important on this one...it's more of the creepy, circus feel to it that counts.

3. "So Contagious", by Acceptance. **Listen to when:** Sark and Sydney confess to one another.

Lyrics:

4. "Striptease", by Hawksley Workman. **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark, as their aliases Madam Katinka and Ari walk into the club and talk to Dr. Anabelle Carlyle.

Lyrics:_ All the ways my mother taught me how  
I want, I want you now  
In any place you'll allow  
I want you now, I want you now_

5. "Junkie", by Poe. **Listen to when:** The good doctor is having her way with Sark.

Lyrics: _I know how wear the costume  
I know how to wear the mask  
I even like the feel of having to ask  
I like the sound of your whistle  
I like the way you wear your grin  
I even like the taste of my will caving in_


	7. Chapter 6, Part 1

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sark's past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Wow, over two months without an update…I am the suck, I apologize. I'm actually going through some life changes at the moment…quitting my job and going to grad school, moving out of my parents' house and moving in with the boyfriend. But it's no excuse for the lateness! So now I present you with 20 pages of Sarkney banter complete with improbable but sexy situations! This chapter features some familiar faces that I was very excited to incorporate into the story. It also showcases my love affair with adverbs…anything that ends in "-ly" just sounds sexy. Be sure to check out the soundtrack this time around…it's a special edition featuring all cover songs…its exciting stuff.  
**Apology:** So, I definitely butchered the dancing terms…if anyone out there knows if I used them correctly or not and wants to correct me, please do. Same thing goes with the sentence of Portuguese I literally wrote out and then stuck it in alta-vista babel fish translator.

* * *

The procedure to contact McKenas Cole hadn't changed since the Covenant days. Sark waited patiently as the cell phone rang in his ear while Sydney watched him dubiously out of the corner of her eye. She found it hard to believe tracking McKenas Cole down would be so ridiculously easy. 

She was placing the Project Smoke test tubes into a foam-lined briefcase for the dead drop later tonight. Neither of them felt they could trust anyone else with testing the vials and neither had the expertise for that kind of in-depth chemistry. Not to mention they had stolen the test tubes from a German government-run black-ops medical facility and buying the kind of equipment needed to test it would trigger too many red flags. Judging from the paperwork laying around the test tubes at the medical facility it had something to do with nanotechnology, but they couldn't sure. They were sending some unknown substance out into the void, into the hands of a terrorist holding her parents captive and Sydney had stopped caring if she was doing the right thing or not.

She could hear her father in her head, yelling at her. She was sure he wouldn't want her to comply with these insane demands. Giving a terrorist an unknown substance, just in the slim chance that when she was through, he'd let her parents go free? Jack would call her insane and irrational and he'd be half right.

_Irrational? Perhaps. Insane? Was it insane to cling to the only thing keeping you stable? Was it insane to do everything in your power to hold on to the one thing you have left?_ Most likely it was, but she was already in too deep and there was no turning back.

"McKenas Cole," Sark spoke, jarring Sydney from her musings. "Do you know who this is?" He put the cell phone on the coffee table and pressed speaker phone. He put a finger to his lips and gave Sydney the eye. She rolled her eyes, but kept quiet.

"Mr. Sark," McKenas Cole boomed snarkily into his mouthpiece. "My dear, sweet former Covenant benefactor. This feels so 'Great Expectations' to me. I feel like you should call me Pip or something. Tell me, how does freedom suit you? I heard you busted out of CIA incarceration earlier this year."

"I find it suits me quite well," Sark said breezily. "Though I find I have entirely too much time and money on my hands now that The Covenant has fallen."

"It's that a bitch?" Cole laughed. "Ah well. What are you going to do? I must admit I enjoyed being your head honcho, spending all that hard earned inheritance money of yours. And Elena. Shame she lost the way in the end. Hot old broad, though. Smoking body."

Sark chuckled despite himself. He glanced at Sydney and smirked. "Good genetics, I suppose. Listen, are you still running arms in South America?"

"It pays the bills. Why? Got something I might be interested in?"

"Possibly. What say you of fully-automatic weapon made entirely of plastic, undetectable to metal detectors?"

"What about bullets, smart guy?"

"Hollow-point, completely non-metal, undetectable. I'll give you an excellent deal for the bullets if you like the product."

"I'm listening."

"Give me the time and place and I'll meet you."

"The outdoor market in Brasilia in two days, 2 p.m. Say, have you replaced your dearly departed sidekick Lauren yet? She was a hot piece of ass, that one. I bet she was real kinky in the sack, am I right?"

Sark didn't look at Sydney, keeping his gaze straight ahead at the phone. He didn't betray any feelings through his actions and Sydney shifted in her chair, her mind rounding on the mention of Lauren Reed. Vaughn had told her that Sark broke down at the sight of Lauren's dead body, a scene that rang false and wrong in her mind. Not that she could ever fully trust anything Vaughn ever said to her, but despite her contempt for him now, she thought he had told her the truth.

Even so, she never could quite picture such a scene, couldn't quite picture Julian Sark in such a state over the death of someone. She could never imagine him loving someone in that way. She could not imagine him making love to someone. He was a fuck and run type of guy, she'd seen them a dime a dozen at college and especially in the agency. And even now, knowing his history with Irina, knowing how he felt about her, the idea of his loving Lauren unsettled her. It changed things. It changed how she thought of him. She needed to keep thinking of him as he was and what he had always been to her. It made things easier.

"My associate will be meeting us there, she will have the merchandise. We can discuss final pricing once you find the goods acceptable."

Cole laughed loudly, his voice nasal sounding extremely grating to Sydney. "A female associate you say? Mixing business with pleasure again? Mr. Sark, you are a man after my own heart. Or loins, what-have-you. I can't wait to see what hot piece you have yourself now. It's the accent, right? Chicks love an accent. I should get myself one of those." Sark sighed, putting a finger to his temple and rubbing irritably. McKenas Cole's verbosity obviously getting on his nerves as well.

"Do we have a deal, Mr. Cole?"

"We have a deal to meet, _mon frère_. Catch you on the flip side." The phone clicked off, signaling the conversation was over.

Sark shut the cell phone and leaned back on the couch, eyes drifting back over to Sydney.

"I'd just like to state for the record I in no way gave any indication we were more than business partners. He inferred everything else, so don't take it out on me."

Sydney's eyes widened slightly, but her tone was calm. "I didn't even say anything," she said simply. "I honestly had expected him to think you and your new partner were lovers. It's how he works. It's how you work." She spoke matter-of-factly, with a shade of disapproval she couldn't quite mask.

"That's not how I work," Sark retorted quickly, with more feeling than Sydney would have thought. She had thought he knew that was his way of doing things, his business and personal life blending seamlessly. His bedroom was his office, his bed the power desk where deals were made.

"While sometimes my business proceedings have bled in with some personal issues, I never let what I do become unprofessional because of it. I never thought you were such a hypocrite, Sydney."

Sydney frowned, her brows knitted menacingly. "I'm a hypocrite? How do you figure that?"

Sark stood up, intent on leaving the room. "Oh, you remember Agent Vaughn," he threw over his shoulder, strolling from the room. "A prime example of letting personal feelings complicate business matters. And of course, Noah Hicks. But you uncomplicated that situation with an ice pick, if I remember correctly. Thirdly, Simon Walker. I would have chalked that one up to Covenant brainwashing but you were never actually brainwashed, as it were. Turns out you were just having some good fun under an alias. Even Will Tippin. You wouldn't sleep with that wanker until you dragged him into espionage. It seems like if anyone here is prone to mixing business with pleasure, it would be you."

"How did you know about Will?" she questioned harshly, suddenly right behind him. She grabbed tightly on to a shoulder and forced him bodily around to face her.

"Not that I have to explain myself to you," she amended quickly. "…but aside from Walker, I loved each and every one of those men, in one way or another. Can you say the same about all the women you've slept with? Whenever you've taken someone you worked with into your bed, was it to get off? Or was it for something more? Go ahead, surprise me. I'd love for you to prove me wrong."

She was lying, of course. She didn't want him to prove her wrong. She wanted him to be insincere, promiscuous, and predatory. She wanted him to be everything she'd always felt he was, everything that she was not.

He was looking at her with a strange mix of incredulity and pity carved in his pale face. He shook his head slightly, sniffing.

"You think you have me all figured out, don't you? Because you could never be wrong about someone like me. Because you and I could never be alike." He laughed a small, cold chuckle.

"For all that talk you had about us being honest with one another, you won't stand to hear anything that might change your opinion of me. So it doesn't really matter what I say, does it? Because you've already made up your mind and nothing I say will ever sway you to think otherwise."

His voice was icy; the soft humor she had come to expect from him was gone from his voice. His eyes were fierce and cold, and for the first time since he'd come back into her life, she could see the ruthless, unyielding side of him that had been so apparent to her in the past. He closed the distance between then, putting only a few inches of space between their bodies. Yet in those few inches, years of misunderstanding yawned open and treacherous between them. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't scared of him in that moment.

"So, because you so want to hear it…I am a bad man, Sydney. I take women into my bed and I leave them the minute after I get what I want. I am cold and unfeeling and there's nothing I wouldn't do to get what I want. And you let me into your house, into your life, and worst of all, into your head. Now, what exactly does that make you?"

Sydney stood, wide-eyed and shell-shocked while his words took hold of her. She was momentarily stunned, blindsided by his tirade, and in a split second of weakness an apology formed on her lips. She quickly bit it back, not sure how serious he was. Her mind raced, desperate for a quick, smart retort. _But in truth I'm lost for words._ When one didn't come, she backtracked.

"What we are, what we're doing, has nothing to do with our past bedfellows," she half sputtered, trying to soften her tone. "It isn't about our past right now. This is just you and me. I didn't need to make assumptions."

Sark's arms, which were crossed rigidly across his chest, relaxed slightly. "Was that an apology?" he asked wryly. "I can't be sure; I've never heard you utter one before."

Sydney stepped back a few paces, inwardly relieved he'd dropped his cruel tone. "I wasn't apologizing," she replied. "Just acknowledging that right now, the past between us is irrelevant as well as any assumptions made thereof."

Sark's arms dropped to his side, his hostility a bit less palpable. "Now that we have a shared enemy, you're going to have unravel that noose you've been hanging me with for the past six years." He paused. "You're going to have to accept that, sooner rather than later."

"I know," Sydney sighed. "I might relapse into that way of thinking and I'm not going to apologize for every instance I can't stop myself. You might find yourself in the same situation," Sydney explained.

Images flooded Sark's mind. Sydney in a pink wig singing at a cabaret in Paris, looking into his eyes and putting a cool hand to his chest. Alison, blood spattered and broken, lying slumped over dead in an unremarkable hallway. Will Tippin pretending to be Jonas the construction worker back in Wisconsin. Slashing Michael Vaugh's throat from his carnival dream. Sydney in a blond wig and skin tight black dress, licking the blood and tequila from his lips.

_Yes, it would be difficult to keep the past from getting between them._

"I suppose we'll have to do our best," Sark supplied evenly. "So, did you want us to leave for Brazil tonight?"

Sydney hesitated. She looked somewhere over his shoulder, determinedly not meeting his eyes. "If you'd like to leave tonight, I'll meet you there. But there's something I need to do first."

Sark's eyebrows shifted questioningly. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," Sydney quickly answered. "In fact, this is something I'd prefer to do on my own. It won't take long; it won't compromise the Brazil mission."

"Hot date?"

Sydney smiled humorlessly. "Something like that."

Sark, still looking slightly intrigued but mostly perplexed, nodded. "Alright. I'll take care of the Project Smoke dead drop." He paused. "I'll see you in Brazil then."

"See you in Brazil."

Sloane had moved Nadia from Cedars-Sinai to a small, private medical facility outside of San Diego earlier in the summer. After resigning as acting director of APO and handing the job over to former CIA Director Hayden Chase, Sloane moved his life to San Diego, spending his days researching a cure for Nadia's disease. Sydney found that in addition to their openness for experimental procedures, the new facility was a shorter trip for her to visit; no doubt both were factors in Sloane's decision for Nadia's move.

Despite all the resentment built up over the years on her part, Sydney had to admit to herself that Sloane seemed resolute in finding Nadia's cure. He had even agreed not to visit Nadia for one day a week so that Sydney could visit on her own, as Sloane was convinced Sydney's visits helped Nadia's progress.

There were times where Sydney didn't speak to Nadia about anything of any great importance. Sometimes it was the weather, other times her new house, or maybe a TV show she had watched or a book she had read. But she found that when she couldn't speak the words of what had happened with Vaughn and the baby to anyone else, she could tell Nadia.

Sydney held the cold hand of her comatose half-sister, sobbing until she couldn't breathe, and the words she couldn't bear to tell anyone else spilling out uncontrollably until there was nothing else left inside her. There had been little comfort for Sydney in these past few months, but the small amount she had felt had been in this hospital room.

Sydney pushed open the door to Nadia's private room and with her other hand pressed the button hidden in the end of her lipstick, effectively killing any surveillance bugs that might be lurking out of sight. Nadia looked pale and beautiful against the stark white sheets of the hospital bed. Sydney pulled the spare chair up to the bed and reached out for her sister's cool hand.

"I've been gone longer than I had wanted to be. I didn't want to miss our last appointment. Something important came up and I…" Sydney's voice faltered, catching a sob in her throat. "…I just didn't want you to think I had forgotten about you."

"I like to think," a chillingly familiar voice spoke from behind her. "…that she can hear what you're saying to her. Maybe it's just my wishful thinking, but her color always looks so much better after you've been to see her."

Sydney's blood ran cold in her veins. The voice ran chills up her spine, caused the tears welling up in her eyes to shrivel back into her tear ducts. There was no mistaking the voice of Arvin Sloane for anyone else's. The sound of his forked tongue behind his teeth was unmistakable. She didn't turn around as she spoke to him.

"I thought you said you wouldn't come on Saturdays," she said, her tone accusatory. She heard him creep up beside her, saw the cuff of his track suit out of the corner of her eye. It was strange to see him in something other than immaculately tailored suits.

"Hello Sydney," he breathed. "When the doctors told me you hadn't come to see Nadia last Saturday, I didn't want her to go a day without hearing from someone. I came today as a precaution." He laid his hand on her shoulder, no doubt thinking it was a reassuring presence to her.

Sydney visibly stiffened under his touch, jerking her shoulder from his grasp. "I wouldn't have missed visiting if it hadn't been important. There might be times I can't visit and you'll need to respect the boundaries we set out. I thought that had been clear enough."

Sloane did not seem to be put off by Sydney's apparent revulsion. Instead he stood next to her, watching Nadia's chest rise and fall underneath the sheets.

"I didn't mean to intrude, but I heard you talking to Nadia just now. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

"No," Sydney deadpanned. Silence stretched between them, with only the tiny beeps and blips emitting from Nadia's many machines intermittently interrupting the quiet.

"Have you talked to your father recently?" Sloane inquired causally. This wouldn't normally seem an out of place question, but coming from Sloane and at a time like this, Sydney immediately went on the defensive. "I haven't heard from him lately."

"Why would he call you?" Sydney snapped. "He doesn't work for you anymore; he doesn't need to check in. He's on vacation. I heard from him last week." Though this was technically true, she _had_ heard from him last week, Sydney felt a foreign urge to ask Sloane what he knew of her father's whereabouts.

"Just thought I'd ask," Sloane commented. "Although our relationship isn't what it once was, I like to think your father and I look out for each other."

"For knowing someone for over 30 years," Sydney spoke acidly. "You don't seem to know my father very well, do you?"

"You'd be surprised at what I know about your father," Sloane answered cryptically. Sydney was standing now, facing down her previous employer with utter contempt written plainly across her face.

"How can you stand there and tell me you know my father? The only person you know or care about is yourself."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Sydney. I thought our relationship had had progressed in strides since Nadia came into our lives." It was hard not to believe him when he talked of Nadia. There was always a sense of frailty when he talked of her, a vulnerability that made him seem almost elderly in his helplessness.

"You see what you want to see. When it comes down to it, you might be Nadia's father, but you're the one who made her this way, stricken her to a hospital bed for God knows how long. Your greed, your _obsession_ with Rambaldi almost killed your daughter, my _sister_. Sevogda was _your_ fault, and no matter how many days, weeks, and months you put toward finding Nadia's cure it will not erase the fact that you did this to her." Sydney took a measured, shuttering breath. Her anger was palpable, clogging her throat, clenching her fists.

"Respect our agreement so we don't have to have this discussion again," she finished coldly.

He had that tiny, furtive smile on his face. The smile he'd given her countless times at SD-6, his lies and infinite secrets hiding confidently behind the upturned corners of his mouth.

"If that's what you want," Sloane complied silkily. He turned on his heel and stopped at the door. "Next time you talk to your father…tell him I said hello."

He was gone in a blink of an eye, but his presence lingered in the room and in Sydney's mind for minutes after. He had tainted this ritual for her, the one cathartic and enriching aspect of her life. Now, there would always be a part of her on the ready, waiting for Sloane to come up behind her as she held Nadia's hand. Bug killers weren't enough to make this a sanctuary any longer.

Sydney stayed few a few minutes longer, stroking Nadia's smooth hand, not speaking. She pulled her sister's hand to her lips, kissing it.

"I don't know when I'll see you next. There are some things I need to do…I don't know how long it will take, or what is going to happen. I just wanted you to know I'll come back. I wouldn't leave you behind. I'll always come back for you."

Sydney put her Nadia's hand down gently on the downy sheets and stood up, hoping this wasn't the last time she'd see her sister.

Outside, in the hospital parking lot, Sark lowered the binoculars and slid off the hood of Sydney's car. He had been lounging, back against the cool glass of the windshield, peering up into Nadia Santos' hospital suite. The arrival of Sloane had been unexpected but the resulting confrontation with Sydney was only inevitable.

Sark's intention hadn't been to invade her privacy or to defy her wishes to be alone. He was merely someone who needed to know all the cards in his hand before making his move. He didn't necessarily like being the leader but he always needed to be in control. Sydney was secretive, unwilling to compromise, and used to getting her way. For his safety and hers, invading her privacy was an unfortunate necessary.

_Not that I'm not a bit curious._

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't. But Sark didn't have time to linger. Sloane was on his way out of the building and Sydney would follow shortly behind him. The last thing he needed was Sloane knowing his involvement with Sydney.

_Unnecessary leaks in protocol require unnecessary collateral damage._ He couldn't deny that he'd take some pleasure in killing Sloane for what he knew about him and Sydney, it was an gratuitous expenditure he'd rather not indulge in if need be.

Sark picked up the briefcase containing the Project Smoke test tubes and walked to the back of the parking lot and out to the street. He hailed a cab.

"Fourteenth Street, please. After that, San Diego airport. They charter private jets there, correct?"

_Brazilian women have a lot to offer_, thought Sark, taking in the local scenery and women at the Brasilia outdoor market. Sitting at a small table in the shade of a fruit vendor booth, Sark used a small bowie knife to cut into the orange flesh of a ripe mango as he waited for McKenas Cole. He was running late; Sark had been 15 minutes early for the meet and it was now rounding on an hour sitting at the same small table.

"How long am I going to sit here?" Sark asked Sydney through his comm., sounding bored. He sliced through the soft mango and popped a piece of the sweet and slightly acidic fruit in his mouth. "I am not a fan of being stood up."

"Because anyone is fan of being stood up," Sydney retorted in his ear. She sat, sweaty and irritated in a bedraggled pickup truck a few hundred feet away from where Sark sat. "At least you're in the shade. I'm sweating my ass off in this sauna of a truck." She looked through her binoculars again, scanning the parameter for any sign of Cole. In truth, Sydney was feeling uneasy about Cole's lack of appearance. She was nervous, and unless Sark was completely oblivious, he was becoming anxious as well.

_You wouldn't know it to look at him,_ Sydney thought absently, turning to aim the binoculars at her partner. He looked comfortable and at ease, collared shirt rolled up to the elbows and buttons open to the chest. Behind his designer sunglasses he could have been any fashionable European on holiday, sucking the syrupy juice from the pad of his thumb. Her mind automatically flashed to her towel dream of Sark and she quickly scrunched her eyes up and shook the thought from her mind, cheeks flushed. Desperate to forget the juice on Sark's fingers, Sydney wondered if he was not aware of the danger they could be in, or if he was just that good of an actor. She grudgingly suspected it was the later.

"Do you have any napkins? Check in the glove compartment. Maybe there's a moist towelette in there. My hands are sticky," Sark groused to her.

"There's nothing here," Sydney replied vaguely, not bothering to look in the glove department. She was definitely ill at ease now. Cole was almost an hour late. Her finger was on her comm. to tell Sark to get back in the truck when who should she see rounding on a clearly bored and beautiful Brazilian woman, but McKenas Cole.

He was inappropriately for the weather: sport coat with open-necked shirt underneath with fitted black slacks and snakeskin boots. He stood out conspicuously against the casually dressed locals.

_As if this ordeal needed to be any more conspicuous_, Sydney cursed to herself and pressed her comm..

"McKenas Cole perving on some poor Brazilian girl, at your 3 o'clock. You want to go break up the party or wait for him to notice you?"

Sark didn't turn, but Sydney knew his gaze had shifted under his opaque upmarket sunglasses.

"Let him have his fun. I'll still be here when she done rejecting him."

Sure enough, not ten seconds later did the slender beauty issue Cole a mighty slap on his left cheek and walk pointedly away, leaving string of Portuguese curses in her wake.

"Good call," Sydney remarked in Sark's ear as she watched Cole rub his now red cheek. She wondered how he could look surprised at being turned down. Sark sat forward in his chair, his hands folded on the tabletop, looking distinctly bemused. McKenas Cole finally caught sight of Sark, giving him the ostentatious "wink and the gun" gesture and swaggering over to greet him.

"Good of you to finally show up," Sark commented dryly to McKenas. "Glad I didn't leave before I saw you strike out with that lovely bird. I didn't think I'd fortunate enough to get dinner _and_ a show today."

Cole laughed loud and obnoxious, pulling up the second chair to Sark's table. "I can't even be mad at 'cha, Mr. Sark. It's that goddamn British accent. Even when you're insulting my game it sounds _ever_ so proper. So, what have you got for me? Where's your ever-so-mysterious new protégé?"

Sark lifted a hand to his comm..

"Mr. Cole desires to make your acquaintance."

With Cole's back facing her direction, Sydney picked up two small electronic devices sitting beside her and, on a whim, reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small, square something and stuffed it in her pocket. She put on her sunglasses and stepped out into the crowded marketplace, electronic devices in tow.

"I wouldn't exactly call her a protégé," Sark told Cole as he watched Sydney's approach from over Cole's shoulder. "In fact, you might even say she's taught _me_ a few things."

Cole's eyebrows went up in comedic, exaggerated arches until he heard the shuffling of dust and felt someone step up behind him. He turned around and shielded his eyes against the sun to greet the newcomer.

"Actually, I doubt an introduction is necessary. Cole, I'm sure you remember Miss Bristow."

The surprised look on Cole's face was made even more obvious by the sweeping up and down of his eyes along Sydney's body.

"Well, I'll be god_damned_." Cole remarked, clearly surprised. Sydney stood on the one side of McKenas, blocking the sun and casting a shadow over him, while Sark sat with his bowie knife on the other. He nodded at Sydney and winked. "Pigtails. You're looking well. God continues to bless your notable physical attributes, kudos for you."

"Wish I could say the same about you," Sydney retorted sarcastically. She turned to Sark. "Oh, and so you would quit complaining," she shifted the two small electronic devices to one hand and with the other she reached into her pocket and threw something small at him.

Sark caught it deftly and looked at the small square. "A moist towelette. How considerate of you. Thanks, love." He ripped the package open and wiped his hands with the cloth. Sydney ignored Sark's casually affectionate moniker and glanced back at McKenas Cole.

Cole kept shifting his gaze between the two of them as if looking for an escape but apparently couldn't help chuckling nasally at them. "I can't believe it. So, what is it, then? You working for the CIA now, Mr. Sark? Or has the British Boy Wonder lured you to the dark side, Pigtails?"

Sydney shifted irritably on the balls of her feet, putting one of the pieces of equipment on the table in front of Cole. McKenas glanced down at it; it was the small monitor Sark had used the night he'd broken into Sydney's home. She flicked the switch to it on.

"Not that I need to tell you, but Sark and I are collaborating on a mutually beneficial side project. There are no affiliations you need to worry about today, so don't get your panties in a twist about us turning you in to the CIA. We're simply blackmailing you for some information we need. Please direct your attention to the monitor."

The screen flashed to a large warehouse.

"You may recognize this as your arms storage facility located outside São Paulo. The weapons you were planning on selling so you could pay back the $30 million you owe the Cubans. The same Cubans that threatened to remove your appendages one limb at a time until you them their money."

Sydney pressed a button on the monitor.

"This is one of several explosives placed inside your warehouse. Now, if you don't tell us what we want to hear, I'll take this," Sydney indicated the other piece of equipment she was holding. "…and release the detonator. You send anyone in to disarm the explosives, I release the detonator. You look at me in a way I don't like, I release the detonator. Are you getting the picture?"

Cole continued to look between the Sark and Sydney incredulously. He finally turned to Sark.

"You must be sticking it to her good every night of the week to be able to take this kind of abuse daily." The punch from Sydney to Cole came instantly, the metal of the detonator colliding brilliantly against his smug face.

Sark simply sat back in his chair, regarding Sydney's reaction as a proud parent might look upon a precocious child.

"Sadly no, Cole," Sark told him. "Sydney and I have the utmost respect for one another. You, on the other hand, just grate on her nerves to the point where she can't control herself from abuse. How about you tell us what we want to know and you can go back to selling your precious guns."

Sark leaned back, using the tip of the bowie knife to scrape out a minuscule fleck of dirt and from under his manicured fingernail. "Who were the people you brought to Dr. Anabelle Carlyle? Who gave you instructions and who did you report back to?"

Cole snorted. "Man, are you behind the times! That was eons ago. And you should know by know that I am a lone wolf by nature. I was a straight up delivery boy for hire. I got a call for a job, I showed up, I delivered some peeps to that hot doctor lady, I collected my money, badda-bing badda-boom. I couldn't tell you I was working for, I don't know who any of the people I delivered to doctor were, I probably couldn't tell you what I had to eat for dinner last night. Oh wait, that's a lie. It was veal piccata. It was a little on the dry side."

Sydney shook her head. "It's too bad you don't remember anything. Here I thought you'd miss your appendages. Do you think if I put in a request to the Cubans for a certain appendage of yours to be cut off first they'd keep it in mind?"

Sydney flipped a lever on the detonator and pressed a small red button. On the small monitor, a light clicked on one of the explosives at Cole's warehouse and a timer lighted up, starting to count down from two minutes.

"Jesus, Sydney!' Cole croaked, grabbing the monitor with two hands. "Turn that goddamned thing off. Listen, I don't know who hired me but I know how to get in contact with them. Will that be enough to fulfill your bitch quota? Cause I'm getting a little sick and tired of my balls in a vice and I've only been in your presence for approximately three minutes."

Sydney shrugged nonchalantly and clicked the red button on the detonator again. The light on the explosive dimmed and the timer stopped at 1:46. Cole was sweating profusely, no doubt the excessive heat and the severity of the situation finally sinking in.

"Tell you what," Cole huffed to Sydney, putting his hands out in front of him on the table. "There's this networking function I am attending while in the area. Black tie, free booze, very swanky. As it turns out, I am lacking a date. I can get a hold of my former contact person, give him some cockamamie story and set up a meet. But only if you come as my date. And only if you wear something black. And maybe a little bit slutty."

Sark moved lightning quick. The knife came slicing down expertly between Cole's splayed fingers, eliciting from him a high-pitched, girlish yell as it stuck upright in the wooden tabletop. Cole picked up his hand and inspected it, making sure all his digits were intact.

"Cut the runaround bullshit," Sark barked at him. He reached for the knife embedded in the table and wedged it free. He pointed it at Cole pointedly. "It isn't that difficult to get some names, Cole."

"Well, you'd think so, but the way I see it is that if you weren't at a dead end, you wouldn't have called me," spat McKenas. "So I figure it's my way or the highway."

Sark and Sydney looked at each other. Both resigned, they turned back to their captive.

"Alright," Sydney answered reluctantly. "But don't think for one second you have any say on how this all goes down and especially on how I dress. You can be seen with slutty girls on your own time and money."

"Far enough," Cole grinned. He turned to Sark. "I'm taking your girl out on the town, Julian. Jealous?"

"Not in the least. She's a biter." Sark gave Cole a very pointed, significant look. "Just don't do something that would force me to start cutting off appendages before the Cubans get to you."

McKenas Cole's only reply was a sardonic smirk that made both Sark and Sydney less sure than either wanted to admit.


	8. Chapter 6, Part 2

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sark's past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Part 2 of chapter six. What can I say? I'm verbose.

* * *

"You mind putting the pedal to the metal, Jeeves?" McKenas Cole asked Sark pompously. "Milady and I don't wish to be late." Wearing a smart chauffeur's cap and matching attire, Sark could almost hear Sydney rolling her eyes as he personally mulled over the many sweet ways to torture Cole.

"How did you ever earn a reputation for professionalism?" Sark asked over his shoulder through the partition of the limo. He was half tempted to drive the luxury vehicle into a ditch just to reach back and punch Cole in his smug face. Sydney was desperately trying to ignore the pissing contest between the two boys by going over her equipment in her infuriatingly small handbag.

"It's because I have a very trusting face," Cole replied smartly. "People look at my face and think, 'there's a guy who will get the job done.'"

"And which people are these?" Sydney asked, still rifling through her purse. "I've never worked with people that equated being professional with being unattractive."

"Ouch, Sydney," Cole moaned, clutching at his heart. "I mean, seriously. That was way ouch. There's no need to be nasty. Need I remind you that _I'm_ the one being blackmailed here. _I'm_ the man with the fucking info. So both of you will kindly kiss my ass from now on, I think."

"If you think that's going to happen," Sydney said, directing her cool gaze at him. "Then you're as stupid as you are repulsive."

Cole looked to Sark over the partition. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that, Limey?"

Sark glanced in the rear view mirror and caught Sydney's gaze. There was amusement and if Sark wasn't mistaken, something parallel to kinship in her eyes. He quickly turned his attention to the road again, pulling up in front of the museum. _For someone who has never taken friendship personally_, thought Sark. _I am enjoying her more than I probably should be._

"Not that she needs my permission, but I absolutely condone that kind of talk. The truth hurts, Cole. But better to realize it now rather than later." He put the car on park and turned in his seat to face them. "Comms on, kids. Have a lovely time."

Sydney graced him with a deadly glare before Cole opened the door for her. Sark took the opportunity to appreciate the smooth lines of Sydney's red gown rounding around the curves of her body. Calf skimming, scarlet-colored and with a slit up the side, the dress contrasted magnificently against the black wig she was sporting tonight. It was softly curled and piled high on her head, snowing off the delicate slope of her neck.

Sydney shut the door, a bit harder than necessary and, sighing, took Cole's arm.

Sark couldn't imagine a more ridiculous looking couple. Sydney Bristow: so poised, elegant, beautiful. McKenas Cole: bumbling, idiotic, abhorrent. The one thing they _did_ have in common was that neither of them realized those adjectives applied to them.

Leaving Sark behind, Sydney felt the faint inklings of a headache coming on as McKenas Cole's voice cut through her like nails on a chalkboard.

"You are looking _smoking_ tonight, Sydney. I mean like, wow. Very hubba hubba. I never thought you were particularly gifted in the bosom department, but all that lovely personality and ass-kicking mentality made up for that. But they're just all over the place tonight, busting out all over. It agrees with you. And with me, for that matter."

"Trust me," Sydney grumbled. "I didn't wear this dress for your benefit."

"Ah, then for whose benefit did you wear it for?" Cole's eyebrows went up suggestively, his head jerking back to the limo.

In the limo, Sark's ears perked. Not that he was expecting Sydney to say his name, but he thought that he knew her well enough to read her answer.

Sydney's head swiveled sharply to Cole, her first reaction to quickly and adamantly refuse it certainly _wasn't_ for Sark's benefit, as obviously it was not. But, before she could issue a denial, she stopped.

"Weren't you taught never to end a sentence in a preposition? What are you, some kind of caveman?"

"What are you, some kind of grammar Nazi?" Cole retorted brusquely.

"Now, now you two," Sark's languid voice drawled over their comms. "Play nice now. Game faces on and all of that."

They came to the security pat down at the entrance of the museum, women putting their purses into x-ray machines, men being swiped over by metal detecting wands. Sydney placed her handbag on the conveyer belt and watched as it passed through the X-ray machine. No alarms sounded as Sydney held up her arms obligingly to the Museum guards, allowing the metal-detecting wands to be swiped across her body. When both she and Cole had both passed inspection they linked arms.

"First things first," Sydney spoke softly to Cole. "No groping or manhandling me in any way, shape, or form. I will not hesitate to rip your testicles off."

Cole nodded. "From a ballbuster like you, how could I expect anything less? I'm afraid my hand would fizzle up and fall off if I even attempted to cop a feel. What else?"

"Secondly," Sydney continued, steering them into the main hall. "You keep me informed at all times to your whereabouts. You follow the protocol we laid down and get the information we need. If you cannot get the information, I will move on to plan B, whether you like it or not. I get the info _my_ way, and whether you get exposed as the Benedict Arnold that you are is not of my concern."

They walked through the grand entranceway, women in ball gowns and men in top hats and tails brushing by them.

"Yeah, yeah," McKenas replied, bored. "This is all business; you're tough, I know, we've been over it." He rubbed his hands together. "Do you see anyone serving shrimp cocktail? Or those little mini quiches? I'm fucking _famished_."

"You can't wait?" Sydney asked, exasperated. "You can't wait for a half an hour? If you mess this up so help me…"

"Potato puffs!" Cole exclaimed excitedly. "My little meet isn't due for another twenty minutes. Don't try to keep me from the hors d'oeuvres or you'll lose yourself an arm, Sugarbutt. Excuse me for a moment."

"Jesus, give me strength," Sydney murmured, looking upward as McKenas trotted to the nearest waitress. "…not to put my stiletto through this man's throat before getting what I came for."

"You're performing admirably, Sydney" Sydney heard in her ear. "And there's no need to call me Jesus. Sark will do just fine. Or if you're feeling particularly friendly, I'll answer to Julian."

Sydney reluctantly smiled, reaching across a long table for a flute of champagne. "I'm assuming you've muted his comm.."

"Naturally."

"It's funny," she said, taking a sip. "Working with someone like McKenas Cole makes me appreciate your professionalism."

"Really?" Sark asked, his voice full of disbelief. His face went pink for a half moment. "You? Appreciating me? Here I thought it would always be the other way around. You continue to surprise me. What is Cole doing?"

Sydney followed the brute with her eyes, watching him hit on the waitress. "Stuffing his face and scamming on chicks. I don't feel good about this. Not in the least."

"I think that if anyone would find the social stylings of McKenas Cole appealing, they would have many more problems to deal with that you and I." Sydney sighed into her comm.. "Don't worry," Sark said. "I've got your back. No worries."

"No worries," Sydney repeated softly. "We'll see about that."

McKenas was strolling back, plate filled with various puff pastries.

"Turn his comm. back on, he's on his way back."

Cole approached Sydney and promptly handed his overflowing plate into her hands.

"Sorry, toots. Looks like our time table has moved up. I spotted my contact across the room. Stay here and look pretty, Daddy needs to go and work."

Sydney shifted the plate and champagne flute to a nearby table. She grabbed Cole by the lapels of his jacket and pulled. "Don't you dare try to play me. This can be very, very simple or very, very difficult. Don't make things harder for yourself or I'll make sure the Cubans use it to their advantage."

Cole winked at her. "Fret not, Mamacita. You'll get it." He sauntered off and Sydney picked up her flute of champagne and gulped down its remains.

"Do we have a visual on Cole's progress?"

Cole's image walked across the screen mounted in the front seat of the limo.

"The tap on the museum's security system is working fine. He's making his way through the crowd. And stop talking to me; you're supposed to look natural. Looking natural doesn't mean talking to oneself."

"Right. I'll mingle. Give me a heads up if you see anything suspicious."

"Absolutely. Try to keep yourself busy. See how many phone numbers you can get. I'll give you a thousand dollars for each number you bring back. It'll pass the time."

"Not that I will cater to your childish banter," Sydney replied drolly. "But if I did, I'd leave you bankrupt. Radio silence, please; I'm mingling."

Sark chuckled and watched Cole's progress across the ballroom. He passed by several men in tuxedos, women in sequined gowns. He descended a flight of stairs and Sark lost sight of him.

"Cole," Sark barked into the comm.. "I lost visual. Where the hell do you think you're going?" Sark's fingers clicked on a few keys on the laptop. He found Cole on a stairwell going to a lower floor. "Don't you dare screw me, Cole."

Cole stopped on the stairwell and looked directly up into the camera. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small electronic device.

"Sorry, old chum," Sark heard Cole giggle over his comm.. "I'm afraid I won't be able to be your girlfriend's lapdog today. As for blowing up my gun warehouse…you ever hear about putting a video feed on a loop? You've been watching the same two hours of tape for the past day. And you called me unprofessional. Tsk, tsk. Give Pigtails a big, sloppy kiss for me. Toodles!"

He wiggled his fingers at the camera gleefully. In his other hand he pressed a button on the small device in his hand. Cole then pushed open a door and sunlight flooded the camera, and he was gone. Sark threw the limo door open and raced around the museum. It was a massive stone and brick monstrosity of a building. Sark pumped his legs, turning corners, coming on dead ends. He backtracked, cutting around the front and stumbling into a back alley.

A black car peeled out at the opposite end of the alley, nearly toppling Sark into a dumpster. Staring at the retreating automobile Sark could see the faint outline of McKenas Cole, happily flipping him the bird.

"Fuck me!" Sark shouted into the empty alleyway. He pressed on his comm.. "Sydney," he panted.. "We've been compromised. Cole looped the feed of the arms warehouse." He paused. "Sydney?" The comm. was silent in Sark's ear. "Sydney!"

_He's pulsed our communication signal,_ thought Sark. He raced back to the limo and rummaged quickly through a large bag. He selected a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and placed them on his face and took off the chauffeur's cap. He dusted off his tuxedo and opened a bottle of water. He poured some into his hands and tried to smooth down his hat hair. He ran back to the side exit, presumably where Cole had fled from. The door opened and he ran.

Inside the ballroom, Sydney was incredibly bored. She stole a look at her watch as she two-stepped with an incredibly boring and overweight banker. Only a few minutes had passed since Cole had left but she was still uneasy. There was something distinctly off about this and it wasn't just her dance partner's steps.

"Excuse me," a familiar male voice said politely in Portuguese. "May I cut in?" Sydney turned and faced a bespectacled Sark, looking less than pleased. Sydney's partner congenially stepped aside and Sydney slipped a cool hand into Sark's. The beginnings of a tango strummed sultry over the dance floor.

"Nice disguise," remarked Sydney dryly. "No one will ever recognize you as an international terrorist in glasses. What the hell are you doing here?"

"We've been compromised," Sark whispered, leading Sydney across the dance floor. "Cole screwed us. The video feed of his warehouse was set on a loop."

Sydney's face immediately turned stormy as she _engache_, wrapping her leg around Sarks' in the traditional tango move. She was too preoccupied with her thoughts to notice the subtle surprised raise of Sark's eyebrow as she slid her leg from around his.

"Fuck. And I just sat here and watched him walk out. We've got nothing now. How could we have let something like this happen?"

Sark let the small stirrings of competition rise in him as the fruitlessness of the mission set in. There was no harm in that. He'd sooner let Sydney show him up on the dance floor than slit his own throat, and if Cole was already gone, there was not much else they could do with him. He grabbed the leg Sydney had wrapped around him and pulled her against him. He executed the _llevada_ perfectly, interspersing _barridas_ with walking steps and dragging her across the dance floor. She looked at him with surprise, momentarily taken out of her moment of irritation about the mission.

"Where did _you_ learn to dance?" she asked skeptically. "When did you take time out of your busy schedule of contract killing and espionage to learn to tango?"

"Well," Sark answered, using the leg wrapped around him to lead Sydney into a _colgada_ spin. "Not knowing how to dance is like not knowing how to fuck. Everyone has the capability but it takes the natural talent of the individual and the tutoring of an experienced partner to perfect your rhythm."

"Informative _and_ descriptive," Sydney retorted, circling Sark in a _molinete_ and letting her hand trace along his neck in time with the music.

"I learned from the best," he replied, smiling and bringing her close.

"What the hell are we going to do now? Go back to Carlyle? Go after Cole?" She was more disheartened than angry now. Sark could tell that behind the determined curl of her lip lay the tiniest fraction of helplessness. She'd cover up the vulnerability with verbal abuse and quick action; the first being aimed at Sark, the second…not so much.

"Ordinarily, being the professional that I am, I would say we head back to the drawing board right away," said Sark. "However I feel we've had such a trying few weeks. The prospect of spending a night of drinking, dancing, and looking at art with you seems quite a bit more enjoyable than the alternative."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Mulling over our failure."

"I don't know," Sydney trailed off. "I think the smarter decision would be to find a different direction to pursue as soon as possible."

"When was the last time someone took you out dancing?" He asked suddenly. Sydney caught his eye. She knew what he was referring to. _When was the last time Vaughn took you dancing?_. She refused to take his bait.

"There was a mission in Havana about eight months ago at a nightclub. And what happened after, well…it put me off dancing for quite some time." Sydney's mind went to the days spent buried alive in a Cuban cemetery. It made her think of Marshall and she swallowed hard. Her old life haunted her. The most benign things triggered forgotten memories and made her heart heavy with past joys and sorrows.

"You know that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant." Sydney paused, and then continued, somewhat resignedly. "Vaughn wasn't much of a dancer."

Sark tsked. "What a shame. And here you do it so well. Where did you learn?"

"Part of agent training at SD-6." She cringed inwardly, remembering a particular instance learning to waltz with Arvin Sloane. "Who taught you?"

He pushed her away and then pulled her body against his, her legs automatically straddling his left leg and sliding down it in a grand _sentada_ gesture as the song strummed to an end.

"Who do you think?" He smirked knowingly and she rolled her eyes.

There was a tap on the microphone and a voice sounded over the ballroom.

"_Atenção, por favor. Atenção. Nós necessitamos todos os convidados arquivar ao hallway principal. Um artifact foi roubado e nós devemos governar para fora de todos nossos convidados para encontrar o assaltante real. Obrigado._"

"An artifact has been stolen?" Sydney murmured. "Fucking McKenas Cole. We can't be questioned; they'll be running everyone's picture through a facial recognition system. Someone who was once number nine on World's Most Wanted is sure to show up." She glared at Sark.

"I was number eight, actually, and that was a simple misunderstanding," he answered dismissively. "Let's get out of here. We'll go the way I came in."

They maneuvered through the crowd, Sydney keeping an eye on Sark's flaxen head as he pierced through the crowd. He waited for her until she reached him and they escaped silently from the ballroom, walking quickly down the hall from which Sark had entered. Closing in on the exit, spoke softly, her voice echoing quietly along the bare floor and walls.

"We're not going to be able to do this, are we? It was such a stupid mistake, the looped feed. The two of us, we're not enough to find them. It's too much."

Sark stopped, turning to face her. There were so many things he could say to her. He could lie and say there was nothing he couldn't accomplish once he set his mind to it. He could be honest and say in all probability that their efforts were fruitless, that they were being blackmailed and her parents were already dead. Instead, he looked at her, his gaze unwavering and filled with disappointment and pity.

"You used to be so amazing; awe-inspiring, really. You could do anything. He's long dead, Sydney. Vaughn is dead but he's killed you every damn day since." He stopped and shook his head. "He's ruined you, Sydney."

She was struck dumb by the truth of his words. He wasn't insulting her; he had simply been able to recognize and voice what she had been feeling for months. Still, she burned with resentment that he could look at her and see her so completely. And he just stared at her, not bothering to hide his disappointment and contempt at her weakness.

"Fuck you," she spat at him. "Don't you dare pretend that you have _any_ idea what I have been through…what I am going through. I can't wait for the day someone knocks you down and you can't get back up again. When that happens you can stand in front of me and give advice, but until then? Keep the personal commentary to yourself and just do what you came to do."

Sark glared at her, tempted to tell her the truth. He could feel it on the tip of his tongue, the betrayal, the heartbreak, the mourning. But it would be too easy, too convenient to lie that at her feet for her to take advantage of. Instead, he bit his lip and thrust the heel of his hand forcefully against the bar of the exit door.

It didn't budge. He shook it but it stood fast.

Alarms shrieked from above them, giving them away. Voices were now echoing down the corridor and they both sighed. Sydney kicked off her heels, picked them up, and then nodded.

They took off at a run, peeling down the hallway. They skidded to a dead end, both panting and searching wildly for an exit. The voices were closer now, coming from the direction in which they came.

They each took separate doors, thrusting their bodies against them, trying to gain entry. The alarms continued their urgent screeching, bringing the guards closer, making the two spies desperate.

"There!' Sark whispered, grabbing Sydney's hand. He was pulling her toward storage closet. The door was propped open and he kicked the stopper out from under it, ushering her to get inside.

"No!" She whispered vehemently. "I am not getting in another closet with you after what happened last time. If we get caught we'll just look suspicious and I don't need you passing out on me again."

He kept a firm grip on her hand. "Sorry Sydney," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry at all. "It doesn't appear as if we have any choice." With little ceremony he opened the storage closet and threw her inside. He quickly followed and stuffed himself inside with her, locking the door behind them.

He was jammed against Sydney's back, with his own resting against the door. She faced the back of the closet, staring at the taxidermied bodies of small jungle creatures. Small, lifeless eyes stared back at her in the darkness. Marmosets, monkeys, snakes and salamanders, all types and species of small creatures stuffed and sat on shelves.

"Could you have picked a creepier closet?" Sydney whispered. "Because the stuffed corpses of small woodland creatures are really quite lovely. And the smell, well, I don't have to tell you how wonderful that –"

"Shut it," Sark whispered, hearing footsteps. He put his hand over her mouth as the footsteps tread closer, turning down their hallway. Fuming, Sydney acted out in the only way the tight space allowed for. In an act of childish defiance she licked the hand covering her mouth.

Somewhat disgusted, but mostly amused, Sark removed the hand and looked at it for a second, then wiped it on Sydney's cheek from behind, smirking to himself.

The voices passed the closet, urgent whisperings in Portuguese easily heard through the slat at the bottom of the closet door. The two of them held still, listening for the footfalls to fade. Sensing the danger of being captured fading, the two breathed out simultaneously.

"You're such a brat," Sydney whispered. She was acutely aware of the lack of space in the closet and between the two of them. She could feel his hot breath tickling the back of her neck and she started turning around to face him, her arms reaching for the door handle.

"You started it," he retorted, a hint of a smile in his voice. "What are you doing?" Sydney's hands were groping behind him, skirting across one of Sark's more noteworthy attributes as she fumbled for the door handle. "If you wanted to give it a squeeze, you could've just asked. You know I would have said yes."

She was fidgeting more wildly now, the doorknob remaining stationary in her hand. Her head stuck firmly between the crook of Sark's neck and his shoulder, she tugged desperately at the handle.

"Goddamn it!" she cursed. "It won't open." Though she was only inches away from his face she could hardly make out the curved slope of his nose, the crooked scarred lip. His breath smelled of spicy cinnamon as he sighed, the exhale blowing a strand of hair from her face. She felt him shift and lean, and with a click a single red light bulb illuminated the storage closet.

Over Sark's shoulder on the inside of the door was a handmade sign.

"Be careful not to shut door completely," Sydney read aloud in Portuguese. "Door will stick and will need janitor to open from outside."

She let out a grunt of frustration and twisted the knob, pushing her body against his, trying to escape. Sark stood stock still, enjoying the feel of Sydney's lithe figure rubbing against him. And then, he was enjoying it a little _too_ much, and he put her hands on her shoulders, trying to steady her.

"Sydney, would you please stop gyrating against me." She continued fighting the doorknob for another moment and then relented.

"I'm not gyrating," Sydney said defiantly.

"It feels like gyrating to me."

"I bet it does," she answered sarcastically. "At least I'm doing something. We can't exactly call for help."

Sark was busy looking up at the ceiling; half looking for an air duct or shaft in which to escape, half willing himself to think about something other than Sydney's proximity to the potential problem below his belt. He was thankful for the near darkness.

Sydney shifted, trying to get more comfortable in the tight space. She slipped her legs in between Sark's, bracing her back on the shelves, her feet sandwiching Sark's left foot. Their thighs were touching, as if they were still tangoing on the dance floor.

"Did you bring a lock pick in your purse?" Sark asked, trying to keep his voice casual. He hadn't even noticed the smell of the stuffed animals lining the walls. It was the scent of that damned shampoo she used that was permeating his senses.

Sydney felt around, finding she had dropped her small bag on the floor. She picked it up awkwardly, her face rubbing against the buttons of his shirt as she squatted down to retrieve it. She felt his back stiffen straight as she stood. Illuminated in the dull red light he stared down at her, a strange look of appreciative curiosity plastered on his face.

"What?" She asked irritably, fishing the lock pick out of her purse. She shifted off the shelves and stood against his chest, her arms wrapping around him to try and work the lock with her pick.

"Nothing," he responded nonchalantly. "I was just thinking it's been quiet some time since I've been locked in a closet with someone. You seem so at ease have your personal space violated."

Sydney rolled her eyes and continued with the lock. It was impossible to know if she was setting the prongs in the right place, there was no room to Sark to move for her to see.

"Seventh grade, Veronica Chissm," he found himself saying, his tone light. "Locked me in with her, you know. Women are always trying to take advantage of me in such tight situations as these."

Sydney didn't answer. She still felt the sting of his words from outside the closet. The casual lilt in his voice was mocking her, like he hadn't just seen completely through her. As if drudging up her painful past was a skill he had mastered, a skill he loved to shove in her face then quickly pull back. It was always a game to him.

"And don't you just wish I was one of those women," she said sneeringly. She felt one of the metal teeth pop in the lock as she turned the tension wrench. She was sick of his games, sick of his offhanded comments hitting so close to home.

"Your presumptuousness offends me," said Sark breezily. They fell into their natural rhythm, trading burns and bruises in verbal sparring that often cut more deeply than their physical frays.

"And besides, you're much too stubborn and disagreeable to be classically attractive," he lied. It was her unruliness and her willfulness that made her so appealing; he had always thought so. Even before Sark had ever met Sydney, Irina had spoken of her daughter's bullheadedness with such affection. She'd shake her head and laugh, recalling how Sydney's willfulness was so transparently like her own. He found it strange that a trait that was so prevalent and, at times, frightening in Irina was decent and admirable in Sydney.

He suspected Sydney might grudgingly respect him for his similar determinedness, though she wouldn't condone what this determinedness was usually for. She'd rather fight than admit a reluctant admiration for him. _Which, usually, was just as fun._

"Thanks for the compliment," she replied acerbically, shifting her weight as her hands worked behind Sark. "Almost got it…"

Then, Sark felt it. With Sydney's legs sandwiching his own, he felt a definite _vibration_ against his thigh.

"Either you have learned an _amazing_ new bodily feat," Sark remarked, surprised. "…or your cell phone is vibrating."

"There wasn't any more room in the damn purse after all the equipment," she answered, relieving one hand from lock picking duty to trace along her leg, where a small cell phone lay strapped to her outer thigh.

"I don't understand, no one knows about this number except…" her voice trailed off, looking at the number illuminated on the front of her phone.

It vibrated again in her hand, as voices outside the closet grew louder, closer.

She looked up at Sark, her face a mask of apprehension and confusion. She pressed the send button and held the phone up to her ear as the doorknob rattled from the outside.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Dad?"

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Six: The Cover Song Edition

Now, when I say cover songs, I don't mean an artist sings another artist's songs and it sounds exactly the same only a different singer (I'm looking at you, Uncle Kracker and Dobie Gray. "Drift Away" sucked ass). I really should call these songs "re-imagined versions" of their originals, as they take the original song and improve upon it, using their own distinct style to make it something different entirely. Please download and enjoy and let me know what you think! If the links die, please let me know and I will upload them again for your listening pleasure.

1. Jose González, "Heartbeats" (originally by The Knife). **Listen to when:** Sark makes the phone call to McKenas Cole and then he and Sydney have a tense argument.

Lyrics:

2. Johnette Napolitano and Danny Lohner, "The Scientist" (originally by Coldplay). **Listen to when:** Sydney visits Nadia in the hospital.

Lyrics:

3. The Pictures, "Milkshake" (originally by Kelis). **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark meet with McKenas Cole in the outdoor market. (You can totally picture Quentin Tarentino strutting into the scene with this as his theme song.)

Lyrics: _My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard  
And their like it's better than yours  
Damn right it's better than yours  
I could teach you but i have to charge_

4. Nouvelle Vague, "Dancing With Myself" (originally by Generation X, but best known by Billy Idol). **Listen to when:** In the limo.

Lyrics: _On the floors of Tokyo  
Or down in London town to go, go  
With the record selection  
With the mirrors reflection  
I'm dancing with myself_

5. Nouvelle Vague, "Ever Fallen in Love" (originally by the Buzzcocks). **Listen to when:** Cole and Sydney go into the museum and Sark talks to Sydney over comms.

Lyrics:

Ever fallen in love with someone  
Ever fallen in love  
In love with someone  
Ever fallen in love  
In love with someone  
You shouldn't've fallen in love with

6. Giant Drag, "Who's Crying Now" (originally by Journey). **Listen to when:** Sark is yelling at/chasing Cole/running to get Sydney.

Lyrics:

One love feeds the fire  
One heart burns desire  
I wonder, who's cryin' now  
Two hearts born to run  
Who'll be the lonely one  
I wonder, who's cryin' now

7. Moulin Rouge Soundtrack with Jose Feliciano, "El Tango de Roxanne" (originally by The Police). **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark tango (up until the 3:00 minute mark…after that it just gets all angsty and Ewan starts whining.)

Lyrics: _Roxanne  
You don't have to wear that dress tonight  
Roxanne  
You don't have to sell your body to the night_

8. Cat Power, "Satisfaction" (originally done by The Rolling Stones). **Listen to when:** After they leave the ballroom and until the alarm sounds.

Lyrics: _When I'm ridin' round the world  
and I'm doin' this and I'm signing that  
and I'm tryin' to make some girl  
who tells me baby better come back later next week  
'cause you see I'm on losing streak.  
I can't get no, oh no no no.  
Hey hey hey, that's what I say_

9. Ladytron, "Oops (Oh My!)" (originally by Tweet). **Listen to when:** They are being chased until they lock themselves in the storage closet.

Lyrics: _I tried and I tried to avoid  
but this thing was happening  
Swallow my pride  
Let it ride and party _

10. M. Ward, "Let's Dance" (originally done by David Bowie). **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark are locked in the closet.

Lyrics: _Let's sway  
While color lights up your face  
Let's sway  
Sway through the crowd to an empty space _


	9. Chapter 7, Part 1

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: R, currently, for naughty language ;-)  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sark's past canon flings as well in future chapters.  
Timeline: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: I am so sorry this installment took so long! With my first semester of grad school under my belt, I think I'll be able to churn out the second part of this chapter quicker than the 5 some-odd months it took for this one to be posted. I have to say, even though its only a half of a chapter, I think readers of the story will find it enjoyable ;-) A candid conversation paired with alcohol...Lord knows that can't be good! I hope you all like it!

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"Dad?"

The red light bulb flickered overhead as Sydney waited for the voice on the other side of the cell phone to speak. The level of tension in the tiny closet skyrocketed as Sark tried to hold the doorknob steady from the guards outside while simultaneously and silently cursing Sydney and her desperation to hear her father's voice. While he inwardly damned her, his ears strained to hear the disapproving tone of Jack Bristow's voice. The stern voice was never a sound he thought he would ever desire to hear. In fact, there were quite a few things Sark would rather hear than the voice of Jack Bristow.

_Nails on a chalkboard, incoming gunfire, and dentist drills all spring to mind,_ thought Sark.

But as the closet seemingly grew smaller and the guards outside called for reinforcements, one syllable from the mouth of Jack Bristow would validate these past weeks, give him some confirmation that Irina was still alive. Sark knew the only man that would spurn Sydney into the state of determinedness that they needed right now was Jack Bristow.

"Sydney?"

Sydney put a hand to her chest in dazed relief as the familiar sound of her father's voice found her ears. The well of tears she thought would have been desert dry by now flooded her eyes, and she blinked them back as she pressed the phone flush against her ears, blocking out Sark and the guards that were pressing in on them from the outside.

"Daddy," Sydney half sobbed. "Where are you? What's going -"

"Listen Sydney, I don't have a lot of time to talk. I'm only being permitted to make this call as a warning."

"A warning?"

Shouts for backup called out loudly from behind the closet door as Sark clung onto the door handle in vain. Sydney tried to block out the pounding fists and Sark's red-lit stare as she strained to hear her father.

"The Messenger knows what you're doing. He's not pleased you're taking things into your own hands. Investigating these tasks he's sending you on will get you killed, not to mention your mother and me. You're to do _only_ what you're told, nothing more."

"But Dad -"

"Listen!" Jack whispered fiercely. "Listen to me very carefully when I say this, Sydney."

"Yes," Sydney answered automatically.

"Could you do something for me?"

"Of course, Dad, but I don't under-"

"Heed my words. Right now he has a knife to your mother's throat if you don't promise stop investigating the missions he's sending you on."

Sydney's eyes flew to Sark, but he had abandoned his grip on the doorknob and was now shifting around her on his hands feeling around the shelves, crouching underneath her, searching the floor for anything that could be used as a weapon.

"I'm begging you to listen. Soon as you do what he says I have every reason to believe we'll be released."

"Daddy, we're kind of in a situation right -"

"Taking things into your own hands will not only put our lives in danger, but yours as well."

"That much is obvious but that's never stopped me, or you, before -"

"Mom's fine, for the time being," Jack pressed on, as if he didn't hear her. "And make sure to tell Sark that Irina is fine so he doesn't do something stupid. She's fine and I'm fine, but not for long if the two of you keep prying into things you shouldn't be prying into."

Sydney's brow furrowed. She hadn't even asked about her mother. And Jack kept repeating things, as if she hadn't heard him the first time. There was something else, something more he was trying to convey to her than a warning. There was a code that she was supposed to see, but with Sark crawling around her legs and the guards shouting outside and her heart beating so fast, she couldn't think.

"I understand," she said slowly. Sark, still on his hands and knees now, was feeling around the walls, pushing against the shelves, fingering bolts and screws aligning the floor and walls. There was nothing. No laundry chute to climb down, nothing that could be used as a weapon. He seriously considered throwing a stuffed marmoset at the guards in an attempt to confuse them for a second or two, but dismissed it quickly. He'd have a better chance at talking himself out of this. If they weren't seen for the internationally renowned spies they were right off the bat.

"Sydney, I hope that you've listened to everything I've said _very_ closely." Jack said seriously. "Do you understand?"

"I do," Sydney said solemnly. She could hear keys jingling outside the door now and could feel Sark standing up between her and the door.

"I love you, sweetheart." Jack's voice cracked slightly, and Sydney's tears trickled uncontrollably down her cheeks. "It'll be over soon."

Sydney felt frozen as her world spun on those few words as Sark whispered to her, his face frantic.

"Sydney, we don't have anything. We're trapped."

"I love you too, Dad," she whispered, but the phone line was already dead. It felt like an hundred pound weight in her hand as the real world fell back into focus. She replayed the conversation in her mind on fast forward, trying frantically to remember the exact words. She glanced at Sark and finally saw him clearly. A shout of triumph sounded from the other side of the door and Sydney sighed.

"Kiss me," she whispered urgently.

"What?!" Sark coughed, caught off guard.

Sydney rolled her eyes and whispered quickly, "You can thank me later. You know, I'm beginning to think you get me into these situations on purpose," before grabbing the back of Sark's neck roughly and pushing his lips to hers. He quickly put his hands up to her face, wiping the tears she had shed for her father away with this thumbs. The gesture caught her off guard and her eyes flew open and fluorescent lighting flooded the dark closet. Sydney and Sark to push apart in mock alarm.

"What are the two of you doing in here," asked the head guard in Portuguese. He looked them up and down, taking in their formal attire. "We evacuated the ball room fifteen minutes ago." He motioned to his fellow security personnel and they roughly ushered the two from out of the closet.

"We were just looking for a few minutes of privacy," Sydney sputtered in fluid Portuguese. "...we didn't realize anyone would miss us. The door was open and we just thought we'd get away for a few minutes. What is going on? Have we done something wrong?"

Two guards searched the tiny closet; pushing aside some of the smaller taxidermied animals in search of whatever artifact had been stolen. They pulled back with a shrug and a spoke to their captain in hushed tones.

"It seems," the captain spoke slowly, "that we have a misunderstanding. It is obvious you couldn't have smuggled a Ming dynasty vase into this closet or onto your person. Please rejoin your party outside the main hall. Try not to detain yourself in any more of the museum's closets."

Sark and Sydney called out apologetically as they linked arms and walked quickly down the hallway.

"For someone who has such a keen eye for details, I wonder why you are blaming your lecherous advances on me," Sark wondered aloud, steering them down the hallway.

"Excuse me?" Sydney huffed indignantly.

"When you take our illustrious history into question, you've always kissed me first," Sark explained patiently, as if talking to a small child. "You will agree that _I_ have never kissed _you_. _You've_ always kissed _me_. Leading me to believe you've always harbored some kind of secret, burning passion for me. It's quite sweet, really and you hide it so well. But if you keep molesting me like this without any of the dating niceties, I'm going to start feeling a bit like a harlot. You don't take me to dinner or anything nice."

Sydney rolled her eyes, but inwardly she found herself somewhat startled to remember that she _had_ always been the one to kiss first; whether it be posing as Lauren in a club, as a waitress in New York or now as a rich socialite in Brazil. Even more embarrassing was that these forced trysts with Sark were the most action she'd gotten in months. And on top of it all, the worst part of it was that underneath the professionalism of it all, as much as she _hated_ to admit it…Sark was not a bad kisser. Not at all.

_Not that I'd ever tell him that_, she mused to herself, embarrassed. _Doesn't change the fact that he's a loathsome, egocentric prick. Just another area of expertise he's needed in his line of work,_ she supposed. _It's that dream, that stupid, stupid dream that haunts me, makes me even notice such an insignificant thing as a kiss._

"Well, I can't help it I react to situations faster than you do," she rationalized curtly. "Far be it for me to disregard a tried and true diversion tactic just because _some_ people can't tell the difference between attraction and a creative distraction."

She and Sark finally found themselves back in the empty ballroom. Winding around overturned chairs and dropped champagne flutes, they made their way out to the main entrance.

"Attraction, creative distraction, doesn't matter. 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,'" Sark quoted airily. "Still feels like you're the one kissing me."

"Dream on, Romeo," Sydney said haughtily. "The day I voluntarily kiss you will be a long, blustery day in hell, my friend." Sark picked up a leftover potato puff from a silver tray and popped it in his mouth before they rejoined the rest of the fashionably dressed ball-goers outside the museum.

"'My friend'? So we're friends now?" he asked, smirking. He rubbed his arms and shivered with a mock chill as he looked around innocently. "Feels like its getting more blustery by the day, wouldn't you agree?"

Sydney rolled her eyes for what she felt was the hundredth time at Sark before she shouldered him in the direction of the limo.

"Let's get the hell out of here. The longer I stay here the longer I remember we were outsmarted by McKenas Cole. And that is entirely too depressing a thought to linger on."

Sark rubbed his face and mouth, exhaling a in a sigh of disgust.

"Fine by me," Sark said, shaking his head. "McKenas Cole. It's bloody ridiculous." He opened the driver's side door and slid in.

"Where to?" Sark asked, looking back at Sydney through the rearview mirror. She looked up at him, still beautiful in her disappointment.

"Home," she said simply, turning to look out the window dejectedly.

With a half-smile forming on his lips, Sark turned the vehicle around and made for the airport.

"Home it is, then."

They went to their respective beds as soon as they arrived back at Sydney's house. Separately they lay awake; Sark on his back with his hands behind his head, Sydney curled up on her side staring at the wall. They didn't talk much on the plane ride back. Jack's admonishment that they stop investigating things on their own left Sydney confused and Sark annoyed. Sark had always pictured Sydney to be the kind of girl more likely to go against her father's wishes out of principle and defiance. He could almost picture her sneaking out as a teenager just to see the look on Jack's face when she got back.

_Almost._

She was so different now; reserved, hesitant, lost. It was just another instance of Michael Vaughn ruining something beautiful and Sark loathed him for it. He was left with the shell of an amazing woman, a woman who had already surrendered. He couldn't just sit around and wait until this "Messenger" told them to jump. Sark felt like he was betraying her as he lay there in the dark, resenting her weakness.

The August heat had fallen away to a night chill and Sark pulled a black tee-shirt from a neat pile of clothing and pulled it on over his boxer briefs. Then, faintly, he heard Sydney in the kitchen. Puzzled he hadn't heard her leave her bedroom; he stood up and padded down the hallway.

Sydney was staring at her now empty highball glass with a small frown on her face. Leaning on the countertop in a white tank top and loose fitting gaucho pants she didn't notice him leaning in the archway until he spoke.

"I'm not driving you to drink, am I?" he asked lightly, walking across the linoleum to pull up a stool to sit across from her at the kitchen island. "And here I thought we were getting on so well." Sydney didn't look surprised to see him as she looked up. She turned resignedly back to her glass as she poured two fingers of tequila for herself.

"Why do you always assume it's about you?" she replied automatically. She looked up at him again and then sighed.

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, gripping the tumbler with the tips of her fingers and swirling the cup on its bottom edge against the table. She lifted the glass to her lips and swigged its entirety of its contents. "I don't make a habit of this, just so you know."

"I wasn't judging," Sark replied evenly. He looked at the microwave clock: 2:32 a.m. "Today was a lot to take in." A beat passed between them and Sark shrugged. "I couldn't sleep either," he supplied.

Sydney pursed her lips slightly as she pushed the bottle slowly across the island and toward him with her pointer finger. Sark's eyebrows shifted upward in slight surprise. Sydney turned around and reached up into a higher cupboard. Her white tank top stretched to above her abdomen, revealing her firm stomach which Sark admired as her eyes were averted. She came down with an identical glass as her own and placed it in front of him. He arched his eyebrow quizzically, but pulled the glass and bottle toward himself.

"Tequila isn't really my drink," he said, pouring himself some of the amber liquid. "It never has been, but you know, ever since someone bit me while I was drinking it, it's left a bad taste in my mouth. You're lucky you didn't scar me."

He didn't mention she had already scarred him; the four inches of scar tissue the pick-ax had left in his thigh was always a bit lighter than the rest of the skin on his body. When Sydney had been presumed dead after the fire in her apartment, for the two years he had been incarcerated, he would run his hand over his leg and still be able feel the scar through the cloth of his prison uniform. He had mourned her death in his own way; the scar served as a reminder of the one woman he could never beat. The one woman he could never get.

"It was part of the alias," she replied dryly. "I had to keep up the appearance of your and Lauren's 'reputation' if I remember your words correctly."

The burn of the alcohol down her throat soothed her. She invited the dulling effect the tequila would have on her soon; she welcomed the dreamless sleep that would follow. She hated this feeling of helplessness, the feeling of not knowing what to do or where to go next. She didn't feel like herself anymore. She hated not being able to be herself around _him_. One drink down and she was already feeling more confident.

Sark held up his glass and after a moments hesitation Sydney poured herself another shot. Holding up his glass, Sark intoned "To your health," and tossed the alcohol back. He made a slight face as the tequila sloshed over his tongue and he swallowed hard, noticing Sydney hadn't even winced. He wiped a bead of liquid off his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and Sydney refilled both glasses. He looked at her questioningly.

"Are you looking to lose yourself in that bottle tonight?" he asked, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. She was a grown woman; she had the right to drink in her own house. But thoughts of his mother unavoidably drifted through his head; the half-empty vodka bottles on the nightstand replaced the wedding picture of her and Lazaray soon after he left them. It was a hard thought to ignore.

"No," she answered wearily, rubbing her head. "But I could do with a dreamless sleep for once. If only for tonight."

She paused. A thought crept up on her, fast and unrelenting. She glanced back at Sark again and fought whether she should ask it. It would be crossing the line she had made for herself. She didn't need to know, and she couldn't see how asking him wouldn't make things worse. He'd tell her if she asked; she knew he would. The question was could she stand hearing it? She picked up her third drink and drank it quickly, licking her lips clean.

"Did you…did you have trouble sleeping after…after Lauren died?" She surprised herself, the question tumbling from her lips before she could stop herself. Sark looked up quickly, clearly more surprised at hearing this than Sydney was saying it. His eyes formed a question and she fumbled with her words.

"I just mean, Vaughn had told me that…that you had loved her and not that I can really trust anything he said to me anymore, but I just thought….I don't know." She shook her head, feeling the heat creep up her cheeks.

Just the simple act of asking him she has assumed he actually had these kinds of feelings. She was seeing him as an actual person now, not just some evil archetype. Sark was almost flattered.

He hesitated, not sure quite how to answer. She was edging into dangerously personal territory, and coming back from that place unscathed was difficult. _She was so fickle_, he thought to himself. _She could use it against him. Not that it mattered much anymore._ He traced the line of his bottom lip with his finger, finally resting his chin on his hand.

"I know you won't be able to understand this, but Lauren was an exceptional woman." Sydney sniffed derisively. Sark stared at her, his eyebrows knitted. Sydney grimaced and put her hands up in surrender.

"I'm sorry, it just slipped. I'll try to keep it to myself." He continued to stare at her for a few more seconds and then continued.

"She and I were a lot alike. Dedicated, determined, brilliant. I saw a lot of myself in her and because of that I could see the things I didn't want to be. She never knew when to stop, when she'd gone too far. There's a line you shouldn't cross and I can't tell you what that line is, and I doubt you'd believe that I wouldn't, or haven't, crossed it. But it was that tenacity that caused her end. You need to know when to let go." He breathed out, as if he'd been holding his breath. Like he'd been choking on these words for a long time.

"Lauren was the kind of person I thought I was. When she died, I let a part of myself die with her. I didn't lie to you in Venice when I told you I was a man of my word. Lauren's death and those months in prison changed me. I admired her and learned from her, but in the end, I didn't love Lauren. I had loved the idea of Lauren, loved the idea of her being so much like me. Narcissism at its finest, I'm sure you'll agree, but I can say I've benefited from knowing with her and being with her. Can you understand that?"

Sydney didn't know what to say. It sounded…right. Nothing in his voice betrayed a lie and she just didn't feel right arguing otherwise.

"Alright," she answered slowly. "I can understand that." She paused, looking down into her empty glass. "It's easier, when you've never been in that place with someone. In our line work, loving someone just complicates things."

When he didn't answer she looked up. He was staring down at his hands, shaking his head. He let out a hollow, humorless laugh.

"You astound me sometimes. For someone who sees themselves as compassionate toward others you are sometimes so preoccupied with your own problems you assume too much. I might not be as noble or as gifted or as admired as you but when I told you I didn't love Lauren that didn't mean I've never been in love. So before you start giving me advice on love lost, save yourself the effort. It's not needed."

Sydney blinked stupidly as she tried to process this information. He'd left her speechless twice in the matter of minutes and she'd been unprepared for this kind of truth, this kind of candidness from Sark. But then again, she had asked for it. Her mouth gaped open for a few seconds before she spoke.

"If it wasn't Lauren, or my mother, who was it?" Sark looked at her; his blue eyes opened wide, his face slack in vague disappointment.

"You don't know?" he asked quietly. Sydney frowned, casting her eyes downward. How could she know? How _would_ she? Then, her eyes shot up and she looked at him, the realization hitting her like an oncoming car.

"You loved Alison."

Sark sighed, and pursed his lip slightly. "I loved Alison since I was twelve years old. She was sixteen. There was an annual summer program for children involved in Project Christmas and she was just…beautiful. It took awhile for someone like her to notice someone like me, but once she had, I never left her side. After six summers I graduated from the program and school and we had a life together, working for your mother and the KGB. We made good money but she was always looking for her next mission, hoping it would be enough to prove herself. When SD-6 approached her about project Helix and Francie, the sum was considerable, as was the risk. When it was through it would be enough for her, she told me it would be the last one. In the end I had lost her and after that…those two years I was in prison and she was dead…it was a dark time. And then you came back to life and came to me in prison and then I just kept on doing what I've always done. I didn't know how to be anything else. There wasn't anything else for me."

"But she hadn't even died," Sydney rationalized. "She came back from the dead, what more could you have asked for?" She paused, shaking her head. "You don't expect me to sympathize with her. She killed Francie."

"I didn't expect you to feel anything for her," Sark replied simply. "She took someone very precious from you. But when it comes down to it, your friend took something very precious from me and that's something I can never forget."

"What did Francie ever do to you?" Sydney responded haughtily, her blood pressure rising. She pushed back from the counter, her face contorting in anger. "All she ever did wrong was be friends with me and it was enough to get her killed. You leave Francie out of this, she is off-limits. Don't you _ever_ speak about her."

"I wasn't talking about Francie," Sark countered, his voice hollow. He stood up off his stool and looked Sydney in the eyes. His lips compressed into a thin line and he fought to keep his composure. Sydney saw the blood in his face rising and her hands itched to form into fists.

"Will Tippin killed Alison. But what was worse…what was worse was that she was supposed to be playing a part, doing a job." His voice rose. "She was supposed to be _playing_ at Francie's life and I saw it happening right in front of my face. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion and knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it. She was _in love_ with him, before and after her first death, long before her final end came. Will Tippin might have kissed your friend Francie, but he fell in love with Alison she fell in love with him and goddamn if that didn't just kill me."

They faced off, the center island serving as a barrier between them. Sydney looked around wildly, her hands gesturing in the air.

"What am I supposed to say to that?" she asked him, feeling the conversation spinning out of control.

After an endless moment of his eyes boring into hers, he finally sat down. His shoulders slumped and he reached for his untouched glass of tequila.

"Don't say anything," he replied, pouring the alcohol into his mouth and swallowing. "There's nothing to say. It's all in the past. And it's about the present now, you and me. Isn't that what you told me?"

Sydney stared at him for a moment and finally, cautiously, she sat down across from him again.

"We probably shouldn't get this personal," Sydney said carefully, watching him pour another shot for himself. "It's conversations like these that prevent us from being professional."

"Oh, I don't know," Sark answered, the alcohol burning warm in his belly now. "I find the truth refreshing, even if it isn't pretty. I should like to hear something out of you, though. I've pretty much laid it on the line and I'm not even on my third drink."

Sydney felt the alcohol burning through her veins, making her blood boil instead of lulling her to sleep. These kinds of conversations were out of bounds. They were more than she wanted to hear. Her head swam as she reached for her glass and debated another drink. She needed for him to stop being so real, stop being so…human. She prayed it was the alcohol that was making her feel closer to him now.

"This conversation is making me feel uncomfortable," Sydney spoke very deliberately. She stood up, resting her hand on the stool. Standing up, the alcohol went straight to her head, causing her to grip the stool more tightly. "I think I should go to bed."

"It's only uncomfortable because we're not even," Sark mused, reaching for the bottle. He couldn't go to sleep now, after all he had said. It was out there now, his secret hanging above them like a specter. He needed more; he needed some kind of validation for giving her part of him.

"How about if I drink another glass so we're both even but only if you tell me something equally damning as what I told you. It's only fair."

Sydney frowned. She didn't like what was going on here. She felt…intrigued and yet unnerved at the same time. She could argue the validity of knowing more about the man sitting so unassumingly across from her. It could help them on later missions, knowing more about each other. And yet, she knew she wasn't doing this for a logical reason. Maybe it as the alcohol feeding this illogical need to know more about him. At least she could blame it on the alcohol in the morning. He never needed to know that she simply wanted more.

"A piece of information for the last dregs of my sobriety," Sark prompted, the right side of his lip curling upward as he filled his glass. He held it expectantly near his face and waited.

"Alright," she answered slowly. She took a deep breath and then spoke very seriously.

"When I was five, I let the little boy next door pee in my hair."

Sark almost dropped his glass. Sydney shrugged her shoulders as a small smirk crept to the one side of her lip.

"Excuse me?" Sark sputtered. "That wasn't exactly the type of information I was looking for."

"You didn't specify what kind of secret", Sydney said, wagging her finger at him. "That was a very deep and dark secret I kept for a long, long time. You should feel honored I shared it with you."

Sark stared at her, his head cocked to one side.

"You're funny," he said, in a voice that indicated he didn't quite believe it.

"You say that like its something that never crossed your mind before. And I wasn't being funny. I was being truthful."

"That is…disturbing. No wonder you're the way you are."

"If you think _that's_ deviant, it makes me wonder about your childhood," Sydney continued. "You must have something far worse than a strange next door neighbor to make you the way you are."

Sydney watched as Sark's smile lose something in that moment. He quickly recovered, and for a moment she doubted she had seen anything change at all.

"I had my moments. None as colorful as that splendid little anecdote, though. Not that that makes us even. If you're not going to play fair and only reveal trivialities, I think we're done here."

Sark pointedly put his drink back on the island.

"Goodnight, Sydney. Pleasant dreams."

His smirk was so infuriating Sydney actually grunted out loud to herself as he left the room. She didn't even care if he heard it. Which he did. Sark lay back down on his couch and turned the T.V. on, resting comfortably back with his hands behind his head.

Sydney looked down at Sark's lonely glass of alcohol as she drummed her fingers on the island. Before she could rationalize herself out of it she picked it up and drank it, knowing full well the four shots would hit her as soon as she stood up.

_If that doesn't put me to sleep, I don't know what will._

Sydney braced herself on the counter and felt the rush to her head quickly take over. Letting a few moments passed, the sensation subsided and she walked as confidently as she could back down the hallway to her room. The ground didn't feel as steady as she herself felt and just as she was about to lay down, her arm was closer to an end table than she realized and knocked her clock radio right on the floor. Sydney cringed at the loud sound and picked up the clock and placed it very precisely back on its table.

"Everything alright in there?" Sark's voice called, the hint of amusement abundantly evident.

"Fine!" Sydney replied sourly back. She lay on her back, eyes wide open. Her blood was pumping loudly in her ears. Her fingers itched. She was not the least bit tired. She could watch T.V. She sat up, and now her whole body itched with pent-up energy. She was hungry. She exhaled loudly, listening to the white noise of Sark watching T.V.

Sydney tried to sit still. But her feet tapped and she knew there was an unopened carton of fudge ripple in the freezer. Standing up, she walked out of the room and back to the kitchen. Sark heard her rustle through the utensil drawer, and then heard her drop a utensil on the linoleum and then utter a soft curse. There was a clinking of glasses and Sark turned his attention back to the television.

Sydney plopped down next to the pillow Sark's head was lying upon. She put the tequila bottle and glass on the coffee table and then placed her feet next to it. Holding the carton to her chest she sunk the spoon into it and savored the first bite, never once looking at Sark.

"Can I have some?" Sark asked, craning his neck back to try and look at her.

"Nope," Sydney replied, watching the television.

"I hope you don't expect me to drink anymore of that tequila," Sark scoffed, settling his head back down on the pillow. "Telling you about the love of my life does in no way equal to your…childhood eccentricities. Not only is it not equal, it's…weird. And really disgusting. And I don't think I want to share my couch with you. Can you please leave? I'm watching something here."

"I can't fall asleep."

"It's because you drank too much and drinking makes you chatty."

"I hate the fact that you're the only person I can get chatty with."

"What kind of ice cream is that?"

"Fudge ripple. It's really good. What are we watching?"

"Are you sure you don't want me to have some?"

"Yes. Why are you watching infomercials?"

"It's this lovely little item called the rotisserie grill and it's the only thing on. Please remove yourself from my couch, please. You are not wanted here."

Sydney paused, the rhythm of their banter halted. She stuck the spoon back in the ice cream and placed the carton on her lap. She didn't need to tell him anything. He would never know if she lied to him, she knew she was that good. And yet, there was this…gnawing at her stomach. What was this feeling? This feeling of…obligation. Uneven ground. She felt indebted and uneasy and strange. Sydney's mind swam, thoughts running rapid and she knew she'd regret it in the morning, and then her mouth was opening and the words spilled out.

"I slept with Weiss."

Sark's head shot up, and he quickly sat up and turned to face her. If she hadn't just revealed possibly the largest, blackest secret she possessed his expression might have been comical. His eyes became impossibly wide, giving him that rare, childish look about him. His mussed hair only exacerbated the picture and she found herself staring at the stuck up, blond peaks as Sark continued gaping.

"Weiss? As in, Agent Weiss? You slept with…him?" Sark was positively boggled. Not that he had put any credence in Sydney's standards on men, but with than iron-clad moral code of hers, it was just…unthinkable.

"Yes, I mean, just once," Sydney replied, digging through her ice cream to avoid looking at him. Her cheeks burned. She was regretting this drunken decision immediately. She tried to explain herself.

"After I came back from being…Julia Thorne, everything was different. Vaughn was married. My dad had been in jail. I couldn't remember anything from the past two years…as I'm sure you remember, as you laughed ever so cruelly at it. People had kids and had a life and were moving on and I was just this…stranger. And the only person who ever treated me like a real person was Weiss. We both knew it was just one, strange moment in time and it never happened again. And despite your tirade about me dipping my pen in the company ink, Weiss and I were better friends because of it. So there."

She pulled the spoon out of the ice cream and shoveled a bite into her mouth. She stared at the cream and chocolate swirls, feeling the effects of her alcohol consumption as the swirls spun slightly.

Sark was still dazed at her confession and he actually had to shake his head before he spoke again.

"Weiss? _Really_? But he's…he's…"

"A better person than you'll ever be," Sydney snapped. Sark didn't even flinch.

"Well, yes, that much is fairly obvious. But, it's just that…he's your ex-fiancé's best friend and your sister's boyfriend. You could have lied to me and told me anything to shut me up, I probably never would have known otherwise. So why tell me about this?"

Sydney mulled over this question, dabbing her spoon into the ice cream. It was a mixture of several emotions that had driven her to tell him this, prompted by the ever-popular social lubricant known as alcohol. But, in the end, it came down to one thing.

"I don't like the feeling of owing you anything," she concluded quietly. She finally met his gaze. The corner of Sark's mouth turned up ever so slightly.

"That feels about right," Sark replied, nodding. "Not wanting to be indebted feels very Sydney Bristow to me. However," he paused, possibly for dramatic effect, but it was primarily lost on Sydney at this point in her intoxication, "…I do like to think we're beginning to get into this whole 'trusting' thing. I am confident you won't use my secret against me and you can be sure I won't use yours against you."

"I don't think I can be sure of anything regarding you," Sydney said, turning her gaze to the bottle on the table. His eyes followed her gaze and he exhaled with a small chuckle. Not bothering to pour himself a glass, he picked up the bottle and held it up in a toast.

"Right, of course. To Eric Weiss, the better man."

With that, he put the bottle to his lips and let a few gulps trickle down his throat. It burned, but not unpleasantly as it had before. He could feel the alcohol working in his system; warming his face, loosening his tongue. He felt like they were in a good place, he and Sydney. It could be a good working relationship. It could actually be a friendship, which was something he didn't take lightly. But the more time he spent with her, the more moments he spent with her like these, the crush he'd developed over the years flared up; hot embers of attraction licking his insides. He'd be lying if he said he didn't want more.

"I don't know how you drink this stuff," Sark said, putting the bottle back down on the table. "It's vicious. Your mother is Russian; you should have vodka running through your veins."

"What can I say? I'm a nonconformist," Sydney replied. The ice cream carton had been relieved of about a third of its contents and Sydney started feeling the warm blanket of sleep drifting over her.

They sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the direction of the television, neither actually watching it. The sound of the infomercial audience clapping served as a backdrop for the pressure-filled silence. There was some strange energy in the air, something too strange to name. Sydney thought it was from the alcohol. Sark thought it was something else entirely.

"I think I can go to bed now," Sydney said, standing up. "Don't read into anything that's gone on tonight. If you bring it up, I'll just blame everything on the alcohol. Understood?"

Sark's mouth formed a peculiar smirk. Amused and yet, Sydney thought, and something she couldn't exactly put her finger on. She knew that look, she knew she did. He never hid his attraction to her, but this look was different. She didn't like how it made her feel. _No_, she thought, _I'm just seeing things._

"Of course. Secrets don't make friends…or anything else, for that matter. Goodnight, Sydney."

Sydney cocked her head, taking the blond man in for a moment. There was certainly more to him than she ever would have imagined, and more than she would ever admit to him. She didn't know if it was the alcohol, but he was becoming this actual person to her.

"Goodnight…Sark." Her eyes passed over his face again as she turned and their eyes met for a brief moment. She knew he had seen her face before it changed to stone, leaving an impossible thought to linger in Sydney's mind. Her mind was fighting forbidden thoughts, images of Sark, of that damn dream, his stupid smile, of the aching loneliness in her mind and body. The alcohol was crumbling her wall of rationality and she knew it. She pushed it from her mind forcefully, but as she walked away she prayed to herself. _Don't follow me._

Sark watched her walk from the room, realizing he was staring at her retreating form and not caring. He shouldn't ruin what had just happened, the lucid part of his mind reasoned. They were in a good place. She trusted him. She could stand being in the same room with him. Her gaze lingered on him a little longer than necessary and goddamn if that didn't do something to him. His mind was racing, his pulse quickening, and before he realized he was standing up. He didn't feel the cold floor on his feet as his legs brought him closer to her, closing the distance between them. Softly illuminated by moonlight shining from the windows she put her hand to her bedroom door. She was so damn beautiful, he knew he should turn around and leave, but all he could hear was his heart beating and he whispered, "Sydney."

She closed her eyes, damning him. But her body was already turning toward him and the hard wood of the door pressed hard against her back as he closed the distance between them.

"What are you doing?" she said nervously. She pressed herself against the door but he just stepped closer, until the sliver of light between them was completely shadowed by their bodies. She could smell her shampoo in his hair and felt the heat of his breath on her lips as his face came so close, oh God, too close to her. Sark could feel the heat of her skin burning through his shirt as he whispered close to her lips.

"Kissing first."

And then his lips were on hers, soft and insistent. His touch felt electric as she fought not to respond to his touch, as his thumb traced feather light on her jaw and ventured close to her lips. His other hand lay on her hip, his thumb so close to the waist of her pants and his fingers so hot on the skin of her back. Sark felt hungry for more as his teeth nipped against the lips that infuriated and tempted him for so many years. Sydney's body betrayed her as he pulled his lips away and her breathing was hot and heavy against his lips.

He could feel her breath against his feverish lips before he dipped his head slowly to the side, his lips brushing against the sweet spot on her neck that made her breath hitch in her throat. His sweet assault stopped at her ear and he whispered.

"I can stop."

Sydney felt as his whiskers brushed against her neck as he pulled away from her. It had been so long, so damn long since she'd been kissed like that, since she'd felt heat and wanting take her so completely. She longed for touch, for connection and he was here, right here, so ready and wanting her. She wanted him to touch her, put his hands anywhere, everywhere. He didn't have to be Sark; he could be anyone, with her eyes closed.

"You can stop talking," she whispered, and pulled his face roughly to hers. Sark moaned, oh God, he couldn't help it, and opened his mouth, wanting her to devour him. He'd wanted this for so long, thought and fantasized about her so many years he couldn't hold himself back. He crushed her body to his and her hands went up to his hair, feeling the silky strands between her fingers as she pressed against his lips with bruising force.

Sydney felt Sark's knee snake in between her legs and then somehow she was leaning into him, feeling his thigh pressing against the heat between her legs. Her hands went under his shirt and her nails gripped into the lean muscle of his back, needing him closer. Sark's hand ventured lower, fingers dancing across the sensitive skin of her abdomen until his hands gripped her thigh and Sydney reacted instantly, her leg wrapping around him and Sark couldn't help himself.

"Sydney...God, I've wanted you for so long. You have no idea how many times I've thought about this."

His words were muffled against her neck, as he nipped the hollow of her throat and Sydney groaned.

"Don't talk," she moaned, breathing heavy against his neck. She needed him to stop talking, needed his hot mouth against her skin. She closed her eyes tight and tried to drown out his words. Her mouth sought his and she felt his tongue flicker against the seam of her lips and she opened herself to him. His tongue probed teasingly against hers as his hand traveled up her thigh and settled on the rounded curve of her ass.

Sydney feels the hard wood of the door on her back, thinking he should open the door to her bedroom when she catches the scent of her own shampoo in his hair again. She ignores it and bites the crooked part of his lip and suddenly he's talking against her lips again while his hands roam wild against her skin.

"Do you even know how amazing you are? Oh God, Sydney you are so incredibly sexy, you can't even imagine what I've imagined doing to you." She opened her eyes at his words and saw her hand on his thigh, grazing against a pink scar peaking from underneath the leg of his boxer briefs.

"Is this mine?" Sydney asked quietly, running a finger along the scar. Her mind flashed to the ice cave in Siberia, Sark clad in black, she in white. Sark's hand was on her stomach now, teasing the sensitive skin as lips danced across her collar bone.

"It's yours," Sark spoke against her skin. He straightened up and looked in her eyes, hands in her hair now. "It's all yours." He kissed her, his tongue so quickly invading her mouth. Her legs were shaking, it was the alcohol she told herself, but Sark cupped her ass tighter and she didn't fall. His eyes had been so dark just now, stormy ocean blue, and then it was all she could think about. Sark's eyes. Sark's hands. Sark's mouth. Oh God, she was breathing heavy now and she couldn't pretend anymore.

"No!" Sydney cried, pushing Sark hard in the chest. He went stumbling backward, crashing into the hallway end table. A potted plant went crashing to the ground, spilling earth and shattered pottery around them. There was no mistaking the shock in Sark's face and he put a hand to his chest, rubbing the place she had shoved him. It hurt, and he breathed heavily through the pain.

"Sydney?" Sark asked, trying to keep keeping his voice as even as possible. She had kissed him back, it was impossible to deny. The way she arched her body into him, the small sound she made in the back of her throat, made her reaction too genuine to fake. It was too genuine for him to ignore. He rubbed his sternum and stared at her. "Why did you do that?"

Sydney couldn't look at him; she couldn't believe what she'd just done. She sank to the floor, looking down at the wooden floorboards. _How had it come to this? Am I just so incredibly lonely?_ Or was it something more dangerous and complex and so unlike herself she didn't dare dwell on it? It was the alcohol mixed carelessly with months without sex and she's refused to let him think anything more.

"When you talk", she said, very deliberately. "…I can't pretend it's not you."

She didn't look up but she could feel his eyes boring into her from above. Sark bit his lip and shook his head, tearing his gaze from her bent head. He looked up and down the hallway, as if the answer to Sydney's sudden reaction lay within the walls between where they stood. He started to move closer to her but her hand shot out, head still bent.

"Just…just go away and leave me alone. Just…go."

Sark stopped. He knew there was nothing more he could do, the moment was lost. _Maybe so, but what a moment._ The minute or two he spent with his hands running hot over Sydney's body had been something he'd been longing for since…it felt like forever. He wouldn't let her take this away from him; it was a shared moment, hers and his. And just as she couldn't take this from him…he couldn't let her forget it.

"If I _had_ been someone else," he started quietly. "…if it was anyone else helping you, living with you, sharing their secrets with you…this wouldn't have happened. It would have only happened with me. You needed it to be me. I think we both know that."

He walked away. Back to his couch, out of her life, Sydney didn't look up to find out. It took a minute, but she stood up, pressing her back against the cool hardness of her door to pull herself off the ground. She shut the door quietly and lay down on her bed, curling up on her side to stare at the knot of wood on her closet. She tried to erase what had just happened from her mind, tried to push it out and throw it away. But there were still remnants of him still on her, revealing her and her indiscretion. She could still smell the scent of her shampoo mixed with his aftershave on her hands and skin. Her blood sung in her veins and her breath still came out in short bursts. Her neck stung where his whiskers has scraped against her. Her lips were swollen. She hated her body for betraying her. She hated Sark more.

And in that moment, when the shame and anger hit her so profoundly, did the answer finally come to her. She wasn't sure how or why the answer unfurled itself in her mind at that moment, but through the haze of frustration her father's code rang clear across her thoughts. She sat bolt upright in bed. _It's so simple_ she thought wildly to herself. She couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it sooner. But the implications…it was so complicated. She wasn't sure she could venture into this subject, into that part of herself again, without coming back unhurt.

And before she could stop herself, her first thought upon learning the truth, was _I should go tell Sark._

She cringed and threw herself back down on the bed. She laid there for minutes, until the minutes turned into hours, separating the night's fact from fiction and wanting nothing more than to be someone else, anyone else. Rays of sunlight shone through the curtains before sleep finally found Sydney. And for a few precious hours, she felt peace.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Seven, Part One

As per always, if a link runs out, comment and I'll reupload a song for you!

1. Gomez, "How We Operate". **Listen to when:** Sark and Sydney are in the closet up until exiting the museum.

Lyrics:

A little joy  
A little sorrow  
And a little pride so we won't have to borrow  
Wherever you lead, I'll follow

2. The Perishers, "Trouble Sleeping". **Listen to when:** The first part of the conversation in the kitchen.

Lyrics:

3. The Dandy Warhols, "Sleep". **Listen to when:** The second part of the conversation.

Lyrics: _Well I could sleep forever, but it's of her I dream.  
If I could sleep forever, I could forget about everything.  
If I could sleep forever.  
If I could sleep forever.  
If I could sleep forever._

4. Mat Kearney, "All I Need". **Listen to when:** Sydney walks away to her room and Sark follows her.

Lyrics:

5. Damien Rice and Lida Hannigan, "9 Crimes". **Listen to when:** Sydney pushes Sark away.

Lyrics:


	10. Chapter 7, Part 2

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** I really tried to get this chapter out on the one year anniversary of posting the first chapter of FWF (April 10th) but couldn't make it work before today. In this half of the chapter, we find out what SpyDaddy was trying to tell Syd in their phone conversation, meet up with an old friend, and find that the consequences of Syd and Sark's short tryst go deeper than either of them expect. Enjoy!

* * *

Sydney felt the headache before she even realized she was awake. Even in her dreamless sleep, the dull throbbing penetrated through the haze. It was the sound of the vacuum that finally roused her, the loud whirring sound insistent and unavoidable. Sydney opened her eyes and already regretted waking up.

The past night's events came rushing back to her in waves and she pulled the sheets over her head, as if they could shield her from facing the consequences of her actions. He'd be out there somewhere, waiting for her with a smug grin and a haughty comment about how irresistible he was. She knew she'd have to leave the safe haven of her bed sooner or later. Cottonmouth had set in and her breath tasted like socks soaked in tequila. She'd have to go to the kitchen for a small glass of water and a very large mug of coffee at some point.

And he'd be there.

She knew she shouldn't dwell on it too much. It was nothing. She'd had to kiss dozens of repulsive strangers on missions, why should this be any different?

_Because Sark is no stranger. Because this wasn't a mission. And because you liked it._

Sydney clamped the pillow down on over her head, trying to drown out the unbidden thoughts and the loud mechanisms of the vacuum outside her door.

_Is he trying to get himself punched in the face?_ Sydney thought. _Because standing outside my door making noise is going the right way for an ass kicking._

She couldn't stand it anymore. Rising (somewhat painfully), Sydney lurched toward the door and wrenched it open. Sark stood next to the broken planter, vacuuming its shattered remains. He was fully dressed, to which Sydney was thankful. She thought of how little clothes separated the two of them from something abhorrent the night before and she cringed. She quickly rearranged her face into a scowl and pushed the memory from her head. Sark finally noticed her standing in the doorway and shut the vacuum. As she had dreaded, self-satisfied grin flashed across his face.

"Morning, Sydney." Sydney frowned and squinted her eyes at him, trying not to notice her own rumpled reflection in the hall mirror.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sark replied in a placating tone. "Were you saving this dirt and broken shards of pottery for something important?"

"Don't get smart with me," Sydney snapped. She started to the kitchen until reached out his hand and grabbed her arm. Sydney jerked it from his grasp as a look of horror spread across her face.

"Don't walk there", Sark said evenly. "There are still some small, sharp pieces of the vase you could step on."

"Get your hands off me," she said with venom in her voice. Sark regarded her with a look one might give a petulant child and she hated him so much in that instant she could have screamed.

"Fine," Sark replied. "Coffee's on, if you wanted some."

He turned on the vacuum and continued, as if Julian Sark cleaning in her house was an everyday occurrence. Turning quickly from him, she made for the kitchen. She hadn't taken two steps when Sydney felt a sharp pain stab into her heel, and she knew she had stepped on a shard of the broken vase. Not missing a beat, she kept walking, cursing Sark as she tried not to limp.

She let out an exasperated grunt as she sat on a kitchen chair, picking up her foot to inspect the damage. It was a small shard, but it had managed to embed itself fully into her skin. Trying to find a good angle, Sydney tried squeezing the foreign object out, but only managed to drive it in deeper. Rivulets of blood seeped from the wound and a drop fell to the linoleum tile. She winced as she tried to use her fingernails to pry the splinter of pottery out. The strange angle she was holding her foot at was starting to send pins and needles up her legs, making Sydney drop her foot and stretch it out, trying to stop it from falling asleep.

"You're tracking blood all over the house," she heard from the doorway. Sydney shut her eyes and groaned. She hadn't even noticed the vacuum had shut off, let alone that he'd followed her to the kitchen. She opened her eyes and looked to the hallway from where he had come, dismayed to see splotches of shiny red blood on the light-colored hardwood floor leading to the kitchen.

"Since you're already having such a blast playing the maid," she said acidly. She picked her foot back up and put it on her lap, picking at her heel again. "Why don't you take care of it? I'm a little busy here."

Sark rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms. Sydney's eyes flickered briefly to his face as he moved from the doorway and walked past her and disappeared to the other side of the house. His face was unreadable, and Sydney found herself uneasy not to be able to know what he thought. She had found him easy to read after these past weeks together, not because she was so adept at reading people she now realized. He could shut himself out to her, like right now, and his face was stone.

_What was he hiding?_ she found herself wondering. She turned her attention back to her foot, reaching for a napkin from the napkin holder on the table and dabbing the wound.

Sark reappeared moments later and Sydney refused to look at him. She breathed out, frustrated, and let her foot drop to the floor.

"I suppose you think this is funny," she remarked grumpily. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. She saw him approach her out of the corner of her eye and she turned her face up to look at him. He had a slight smile playing on his lips, but did not betray a sanctimonious mindset. Placing something on the table, he knelt in front of Sydney and she tried to back away.

"Don't," he said firmly, wrapping his hand around her ankle firmly. "…you dare kick me. I'm just trying to help." He held up a pair of tweezers and arched his eyebrows, waiting for her answer. She looked at the table, seeing that he'd put a band aid next to her. Exhaling loudly, she held her foot out.

"Fine."

Sark shook his head, as if amused, and held her foot while he prodded at the cut with the tweezers. He hadn't known what to expect when she finally emerged from her room this morning.

Seeing her so unnerved by their encounter not only validated she found him, at the very least, physically attractive, but also made him wonder if it just hadn't meant something to her. He was certain she hadn't dated anyone before her engagement to Vaughn or after his death, let alone done what they had. He was getting to her, in a way she hadn't wanted or thought possible, and Sark couldn't have been more pleased if she hadn't ended up stopping him. Her anger endeared her to him, in the most absurd way possible.

"Ouch!" Sydney yelled, jerking her foot away. She shot him an angry look. "Are you _trying_ to hurt me?"

"Now, why would I want to do that?" Sark replied calmly.

Sydney shrugged, clearly annoyed. _Because you pushed him away, because he's dangerous, because this whole situation is ludicrously out of control,_ Sydney thought to herself.

Sark held his hand out expectantly. Sydney groaned, and extended her leg and put her foot in his hands again. Sark lifted Sydney's foot to eye level and raised the tweezers and began extracting the sliver from the soft flesh of her heel.

"This is your fault, you know," Sydney huffed. Sark looked up quickly, casting an indulgent glance in her direction and then turning back to her foot.

"It's my fault you stepped on the shards of broken pottery after I told you about them? Or is it my fault because I kissed you?"

Sydney _did not_ want to talk about this. She resisted the urge to use the foot Sark was holding to kick him in the face. With her luck it would just embed the shard of pottery into her foot deeper. She turned her head away, not wanting to look at him. Heat had risen to her cheeks and she refused to let him know how much she had let him get to her.

When she didn't respond, Sark turned his attention back to her foot, wondering what she was thinking. She was blushing, he could see, but that hadn't heartened him as much as he thought it would. He hadn't slept much last night, thinking about what had happened, which was ridiculous, he knew. Everything he had ever felt for Sydney came through in that kiss and she had responded, pushing her body against his that even now, just thinking about it, the stirrings of his attraction to her flared. He had expected to feel triumphant, justified; a long-awaited desire finally fulfilled.

What he hadn't expected, what he hadn't planned for, underneath the long-awaited satisfaction, was a creeping feeling of regret. He didn't regret how amazing her touch felt, how much her reciprocation had turned him on. No, it was now, as he knelt before her, that regret silently unfurled inside him. Regret that maybe last night would be the last time she'd confide so earnestly in him, the last time the connection between them would something _more_ than physical attraction, something that intensified the hold she had on him to something he didn't quite understand. The dimensions of his feelings had shifted into something complicated and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

Not that he'd ever let her think he was anything less than pleased.

Sydney winced as Sark finally located the shard of pottery and pulled it out. She glared at him but allowed him to place the band aid over the wound. She stood up quickly and walked to the coffee pot, turning her back to him.

"Are we not going to talk about this?" Sark asked lightly, standing up and walking to sit on a stool by the kitchen island. Sydney poured her coffee in silence, mentally cursing him. _Why didn't he just leave? Can't he see I don't want to talk?_

"I'm not sorry," Sark continued. He continued to stare at her and she continued to ignore him, keeping her back to him at all times as she pretended to search the cupboards for something.

"I'm not sorry I kissed you. If you're expecting an apology for that, you're going to be waiting for quite a long time. Doing that, kissing you, was something I've wanted to do since I first saw you and you were…no less than amazing." He paused and Sydney, still turned away, strained to hear him. He never made any qualms about his attraction to her, but this admittance, this small but earnest confession, struck her strangely. _Amazing_ was not a tiny compliment.

"However, I am worried that it might affect what we have now, this…accord we have temporarily struck. I'd like to hear what you have to say."

Sydney stopped pretending to look in the cupboards and sighed, putting her hands to her temples. The dull throb she had felt was turning into a very real, very annoying and painful headache and yet…she hadn't expected such candidness from him afterward. She had expected the cockiness, expected it to be rubbed in her face. She hadn't expected his trepidation that he could have ruined what relationship they had established. She hadn't expected _amazing_.

Turning, she faced him, thankful the physical barrier of the kitchen island separated them. She crossed her arms and spoke.

"I am only going to say this once. Last night was a mistake. A huge, huge mistake. I was drunk and…maybe a little vulnerable and you were just _there_. If you mistake what happened as any feelings of attraction for you, physically or otherwise, you are a bigger fool than I thought. I won't let you manipulate this into something to your advantage. I was drunk and lonely and you took advantage of being in the right place at the right time. You could have been _anybody_."

She finished, putting as much venom in her words as she could muster. Sark's eyebrows lifted as he took in her diatribe, trying to hear what she was saying behind the words. He'd already pushed her this far, what was topping him from going farther?

"If I was anyone else, just someone that _took advantage_ of you," Sark asked matter-of-factly. "…would you be this upset? If it hadn't mattered who I was…why did you stop?"

She closed her eyes, embarrassed to think it could have gone that far. If he hadn't talked, if she kept her eyes closed, she knew she could have let it become more.

"Because," Sydney answered as evenly as she could. "…it _was_ you. No matter how lonely I was or how…not unpleasant it was, I could never live with myself if we had done something."

She picked up her mug and walked from the kitchen, trying not to put pressure on her heel. Sark gazed after her, a smile spreading across his face. He could live with _not unpleasant._

Sydney tread lightly back to her bedroom, careful to mind the cut in her foot. The mess in the hallway had been cleaned and after everything, the strangest part of this whole debacle was waking up to find Sark cleaning the mess she had made. It was so surreal in its normalcy.

After taking a large sip of her coffee, Sydney placed it on the end table and reached under her bed for her suitcase. She'd only be gone for a day or two, but she needed to get away. Away from this house, away from Sark, away from this life. But she didn't have the time. She never had the time.

Sark followed her and stood in the doorway, watching her pack.

"Going on holiday?" he asked lightly. She didn't turn to face him but went to the set of drawers to Sark's right and pulled out jeans, a shirt, and some underwear.

"I figured out what my father was trying to tell me on the phone," she replied in as even a tone as she could muster.

"Really? What was it?" He was leaning on the doorframe, content for some civil conversation.

"It was so simple I didn't even think of it," she replied, folding the clothes neatly before placing them in the suitcase. "It was like he didn't even try to conceal his agenda, which isn't his style at all. The first letter of every sentence spelled out a word." She sighed, closing the suitcase. "It spelled out 'Christmas'."

Sark frowned as Sydney turned and, not looking at him, left the room. He sighed; annoyed that he had to follow her around the house for any sort of answers. She was acting so immature about this whole thing, which he found to be only slightly attractive.

"So this whole thing has to do with 'Project Christmas' then?" Sark called to her as she walked from the room and started to rummage around loudly in the bathroom.

He shouldn't be so surprised. Project Christmas' effects were large-scale and despite being implemented three decades ago was still very much an integral part of the espionage world. Thousands of sleeper agents littered both foreign and American intelligence agencies, among other, more nefarious organizations. It was no coincidence that he and Sydney were both victims of Project Christmas and it was no coincidence that The Messenger brought the two of them together. She walked stiffly past him from the bathroom, holding a bag of her toiletries.

"So what does this mean? Obviously we're going somewhere," Sark said, gesturing to her bags. Not having anything to busy herself with, Sydney finally faced him.

"We need more information, and there's only one person out there with comprehensive information about Project Christmas that has no ties to the government, no ties to anyone, no way that we can be found out if we ask for intel."

Sark knew before she even said his name. Sydney watched as his whole demeanor shifted, from even cool to incredulous anger.

"No," Sark said, his voice raising. He stepped toward her and instinctively Sydney took a step back. She had known this was coming. "I will absolutely _not_ ask Will Tippin for help. We can find out what he need some other way. Going to _him_ is absolutely _out_ of the question."

A beat passed before Sydney answered. "I wasn't asking you to come with me," Sydney replied quietly.

That surprised him, she saw. He hadn't thought she would go by herself, though she thought he should have expected it.

His tone was decidedly cool when he finally answered. "I see. What a lovely reunion for you both."

"There's something else," Sydney said warily. She had thought this through, and she knew he would take offense. She shouldn't care. She didn't need to explain herself to him. They weren't friends. But, nevertheless, she couldn't just come out and say it. She surprised herself when the words came out softer than she had anticipated.

"I don't want you staying here while I'm gone. I think it'd be best if you stayed in a hotel. I'll call you when I get back."

Her statement was met with a stunned silence. Just when he thought he couldn't feel more insulted, she comes at him with this. His eyes were stormy when he finally replied.

"Afraid I'll run around with scissors, then? Might steal your fine china?"

Sydney wondered why this was so hard. It's her house, her things. He's a terrorist, a killer. It shouldn't be this hard.

"I have my reasons. Reasons I don't need to explain to you."

She expected the usual snide retort; she needed it. Needed him to be cruel so she could feel like herself again. But he just stood there, arms folded; looking at her like he didn't even recognize her. Like he was _disappointed_ in her. She hated that look. The look he gave her when she did anything less than heroic.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he turned from her, walking away. He couldn't stand looking at her anymore. Denying what happened last night…that he could handle. He had expected that. But _this_? Going to Tippin, kicking him out of the house she invited him into…he found it unacceptable.

_Good_, she thought as he walked away. _Saves me the trouble of explaining it._ But even as she thought this, a gnawing ache clawed at her belly. His passivity unnerved her, but she rationalized that it could just be the coffee sitting in an empty stomach after a night of tequila.

She waited a few minutes before exiting her bedroom, intent on making it to the bathroom to shower without coming in contact with him again. A few days apart would help clear the air, make things easier to understand. When she finally exited the bedroom, she didn't look for him, didn't try and avoid him. She entered the bathroom and took off her clothes, anxious to wash the past night's events off of her.

Sydney indulged in only a quick shower before wrapping a terrycloth robe tightly around her and leaving the bathroom. Halfway to her room she stopped, feeling strange.

The house felt big, empty; the air was disconcertingly still. And in that moment she knew Sark had already gone. Walking through the living room, there was no trace that he had ever been here. No physical remnants of him remained but his presence lingered like a ghostly apparition. She was thankful and resentful all at the same time.

But there was no time to linger. She had a plane to Wisconsin to catch.

Sark thought the hotel bar was insufferably quaint, as he sipped from a vodka tonic. Bars were supposed to be dingy and sad, to mirror the thoughts and hearts of those who seek refuge in its wares. The lighting was soft, but warm. A jukebox played and a solitary couple danced, while college kids laughed over a pitcher of lager. This was not the scene he imagined when he decided to get drunk tonight.

Drinking to excess was not something Julian Sark engaged in. It was sloppy and unprofessional, two things he prided himself not to be. He could think of two other times he had set out to lose himself in drink, and over a failed flirtation was the cause of neither. But this wasn't just a rejection anymore.

He'd never given anyone a chance to trust in him; there was no logic in it. But when logic wasn't a factor anymore he'd given her every reason to trust in him, and she'd throw it away without care or remorse. He knew now why he had kept his allegiances transient; because when they were broken he felt resentful, angry, and small.

"You look like you've been run over by a truck," a husky voice spoke. Looking over, Sark saw a dark-haired woman from a few stools away catch his eye. She was a wavy-haired and dark eyed beauty, young but with the burden of experience weighing heavily on her.

"Something like that," Sark answered in an American accent. He wasn't interested in small talk with strangers tonight. He signaled the bartender for another drink.

"What's her name?" The way she asked it would have seemed intrusive coming from another stranger, but something in her voice made him turn to her. Her impish mouth held a small smile, knowledgeable and slightly sad. "The truck driver that ran over your heart, that is."

He cocked his head, surveying her.

"Sydney," he answered finally after a few moments. He wanted to correct her; he wasn't heartbroken. The thought of that was absurd. He was simply disappointed in her; though his pride had taken somewhat of a beating.

"Hmm," the woman answered, nodding. She indicated to the seat next to him. "May I?"

Sark inclined his head. "Be my guest. Though I should tell you I'm probably not the best company tonight."

The woman slid over a seat, chuckling softly.

"You're exactly the kind of company I'm looking for. I'm looking or someone just as miserable as me tonight."

Sark exhaled loudly and lifted his drink to her. "Then I'm your man."

Wisconsin was already becoming slightly chilly in the late August evening. Sydney wished she had brought a light jacket as she stood outside Will's house.

_Jonah's house, it is Jonah's house,_ Sydney reminded herself. It looked like a house that Will would live in. _Everything that is important about him is still the same_, thought Sydney.

Standing in front of the door, Sydney waited to knock. She wanted to see him, now more than ever. His face brought her to a simpler time, a time where she could afford the luxury of friendship. She didn't know how she would ask him for a favor, after everything knowing her had done to him. Not to mention showing up would endanger his Witness Protection cover. The best thing she could do for him is walk away.

The knock on the door sounded hollow, and Sydney half-hoped he wasn't home. There was silence, and then, muffled words called out to her as she heard footfalls approach the door.

"Sweetheart, I told you not until 8:00. I'm nowhere near finished, and I think I burned a potholder. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a potholder, I mean, aren't they supposed to be…"

Will stopped mid-sentence as he opened the door to find his oldest friend standing before him. His eyes went wide and she tried not to cry.

"Hi." The greeting came out of her mouth sounding tremulous.

She had hardly gotten the words out before Will enveloped her in a tight bear hug. Sydney couldn't help it; hot tears spilled onto the shoulder of Will's shirt. The embrace was warm, and Sydney remembered what it had been like to trust someone, feel the comfort of familiarity and easy conversation. She wiped what she could from her face before he pulled away.

"Sydney…oh my God, I can't believe you're here! You don't know how good it is to see a familiar face. It's like you knew I needed to talk to you." He pulled away and his smile was infectious. She smiled until it hurt.

"You have no idea," Sydney replied. She hated herself for being her, putting him in danger but…God, it felt so good to see him again. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting something…"

"Well, actually you are," Will answer, chuckling. "..or you will be, but right now, there isn't anyone I'd rather see. But I need you. Any other night we'd sit down and talk for hours but right now, I need your hands."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. The home was simple and yet, distinctly Will. Magazines strewn on a glad coffee table, his construction shirts folded neatly in a clothes basket, colorful canvases lined the walls. They all passed by in a blur as Will lead her to the kitchen. He had several pots on to boil, while the counters were spattered with flour and what looked like tomato sauce. The smell of something burning tinged the air.

"There's so much to talk about, I know, but, if you could stir and assist while the talking happens, I'd really appreciate it."

Sydney immediately stepped beside him and turned down a heavily boiling pot.

"Are you making a special dinner for someone tonight?" Sydney asked. Will smiled. A genuine, wide smile that made Sydney wonder the last time she had smiled like that. Will nodded his head toward the kitchen table, and only then did Sydney see the tiny jewelry box. Looking back and forth between the velvet box and Will, Sydney gasped.

Abandoning her post at the boiling pot, she picked up the box. A single, round diamond winked brightly at her from its simple platinum setting. Her mind unintentionally went to a small drawstring bag, nestled next to her collection of knives and semi-automatic pistols in the secret drawer in her dresser, where the engagement rings from her two dead fiancées lay cold and tarnished. She knew this ring would fulfill its purpose, adorning the hand of the woman Will Tippin loved.

"Remember the artist I told you about?" Will asked proudly. Sydney nodded, still smiling. He was so happy…happier than she'd ever seen him. And here she was, in his kitchen, putting that happiness in jeopardy. He didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to have him in her life anymore.

"The ring's been burning a hole in my pocket all week. Her name is Vanessa. You'd really like her, Syd. And if she says yes," Sydney gave him a look. "Heh, _when_ she says yes…I want you to be my best man. Best…woman. Best person."

The tears welled up again, but she didn't try to hide them. The selfish part of her wanted to badly to do this for him, be that person again. She'd try. She'd try for him.

"Oh Will…of course I will. I would be honored." Impulsively, she hugged him, reveling in the comfort of his familiar embrace.

And for a few minutes, the normalcy of their conversation soothed her. She let him prattle on about mundane topics while they stirred and checked the oven temperature. She didn't want to break the bubble…not yet.

"…and I thought I heard something upstairs, so I went up and I there he was having sex with my best friend."

Sark gulped down the remnants of his eighth drink as his companion continued her saga. He'd been listening, albeit mostly peripherally. It was the same story at any college, in any city. This girl was looking for an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on; both of which he normally didn't have to spare. But the drinks were fueling his personal indignation and lessening his desire to get up and move to another seat. And besides, when had he ever been against the company of a beautiful woman?

"…his name is Brian. What an asshole."

Sark didn't even need to signal the bartender, there was already a drink waiting beside his empty glass. Sark caught the eye of the man serving drinks and signaled for the check.

"Sounds like you're better off without Brian as your boyfriend," was Sark's automatic answer.

"Oh no, Brian is my best friend's name. My boyfriend's name was Stewart. No wonder we hadn't had sex in months. And here I just thought he was trying not to seem like the typical sex-hungry man-boy."

She chuckled wryly as Sark picked up his last drink.

"That certainly is not your typical break up story," Sark offered.

"I'm sorry," the woman went on. "Here I am, just spouting off about my problems. You don't deserve to suffer through my ranting. I don't even know your name and yet I just can't keep my mouth shut, I apologize."

"Ben. Ben Hollier," Sark offered, remembering the alias he'd used to sign for the hotel room.

The woman proffered a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ben Hollier. I'm Fallon Cates."

"The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Cates."

"So Ben," Fallon continued casually. "You seem like a pretty put-together guy. And here you are, in this dreadfully cheery bar, drinking the night away. What did this Sydney person do to you that has driven you to such a low?"

Sark was not at all inclined to discuss the warped intimacies of his and Sydney's relationship. He was, however, noticing how the hem of Fallon's skirt shifted higher when she re-crossed her legs, how she was staring at his lips and hands.

She was expecting him to say something.

"She didn't do anything I wouldn't have expected from her. And I suppose that makes this my fault for not knowing better."

Fallon lifted her glass to him.

"Here's to not knowing any better. May we not be so oblivious in the future."

Sark lifted his last drink to her, and downed it quickly. He was feeling distinctly unnerved. He wanted to forget, just get away for a night but the drinking made him feel anxious and not within control of his own actions. He was, for example, not in control of Fallon's hand drawing light circles on his thigh. Not that he was opposed, either.

"Ben, I'm going to make this real easy for you," Fallon murmured softly. "I haven't had a man touch me in months. I want you. Do you want me?"

A few drinks ago, Sark might have understood that this question wasn't as simple as it seemed. His situation gave the answer to this question certain complexities and complications he really should look over.

But Sark was sick of the complex and complicated. He wanted simple.

"As much as I know you love my rambling," Will said, chopping carrots. "...I'm fairly certain you didn't hop on a plane just to get me in trouble with my witness protection officer by talking to someone from my past life."

Just the thought of putting Will in danger made the bottom fall out of her heart again. The burden of her friendship was especially heavy for Will, an innocent, and Sydney couldn't have felt more guilty if she had put a big neon sign flashing "witness protection" outside his house.

Not looking at him, she sighed.

"As glad as I am to see you…no, this isn't a social call. If there was any other way, if this wasn't so important, I wouldn't have come."

Will nodded. "I know."

_He shouldn't have to understand,_ Sydney thought bitterly. _He shouldn't have to know what life and death stakes feel like._

"I can't tell you what's going on right now. I can only tell you that I've left CIA for awhile and because of that I can't use their resources. Something is going on right now, something I don't have control over, and I need more information. Untraceable information."

"Like something you would get from someone who doesn't exist," Will replied. He smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Someone like Will Tippin."

Sydney nodded reluctantly.

"You know I'll do whatever I can," Will said, wiping his hands on a towel. "…Lord knows how long it's been since I've done something useful. I mean, being lead contractor on making a gazebo for possibly the oldest, meanest lady in Wisconsin is of course, super fun, but not exactly life changing."

"It was life changing for the mean old lady", Sydney pointed out.

"You know what I mean," Will replied, and Sydney decided not to argue. Will continued, in a somewhat disconsolate voice. "But I don't know how much I'll be able to help."

Sydney scooped up the carrots Will had chopped and threw them in a pot. Sighing, knowing she couldn't put it off any longer, she leaned against the counter and faced him.

"I need to know if you have any copies of the files you went through for Project Christmas."

Will's eyes went wide, but he didn't look surprised.

"I don't have any."

Sydney closed her eyes and sighed, but quickly looked up and offered a tightlipped smile. Nodding, she started chopping up an onion, wanting to be productive somehow. She opened her mouth to say something, but Will's hand on her shoulder stopped the words.

"…but I know where you can find one."

His grin was wide when she lifted her head and looked hopefully at him. He nodded and she dropped the knife on the cutting board, hugging him fiercely. He disentangled himself from her and opened a drawer, pulling out a paper and pen.

"This is the name of a bank in L.A.," Will said, writing on the paper. "…and this is a number of the safety deposit box." He put the pen down and walked from the room. There was a minute or two filled with the sounds of rustling paper and drawers opening and closing before he returned.

"And this," he said, holding up a key. "Will get you into that safety deposit box. There's a flash drive with all the information I had on Project Christmas. Never hurts to make copies."

"I suppose it doesn't," Sydney said, laughing, and she pocketed the key and piece of paper.

From the front of the house, there was a faint creak and suddenly the door opened. Keys jingled as a woman's voice called out.

"Hey bunny, I picked up some wine for dinner."

Sydney's eyes went wide and Will made a wide gesture for her to get the ring box from the table. Sydney quickly retrieved it and handed it over. Will shoved it in his back pocket as the woman walked into the kitchen.

"I hope you aren't making a cream sauce again, you know how last time it gave me the worst –" She finally looked up and saw the two friends, covered in flour and looking slightly guilty. Will smiled broadly and went to the woman's side, kissing her on the cheek. Taking her hand, he gestured to Sydney.

"Vanessa, I'd like you to meet Sydney. Sydney, this is Vanessa."

She was gorgeous, Sydney saw immediately. Her red hair fell in light waves around her porcelain face. Sydney stuck out her hand and smiled warmly.

"Hi, Vanessa. Jonas has told me so much about you –"

Vanessa placed the bag she was carrying down on the kitchen table and closed the distance between her and Sydney, enveloping her in an unexpected but heartfelt hug.

Sydney, surprised at first, recovered and hugged her back.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to meet one of Jonas' old friends," Vanessa said warmly. "I've heard so much about you, I feel like I know you already."

Looking back and forth between Will and Vanessa, Sydney could see how much they were on love. Her mind immediately brought up the image of Danny, and how he used to look at her that way. And for once, instead of sadness welling up inside her, Sydney felt joy. Her friend was happy.

"It's so nice to meet you, Vanessa," Sydney said sincerely. She reached for her purse on the kitchen chair. "…but I only stopped in for a minute. I'm in town for business and I have a late-night meeting to get to but I didn't want to get here and not stop in. But somehow I got roped into helping this hapless cook into making dinner and unfortunately I'm running late."

"Can you at least stay for dinner?" Vanessa asked. "Reschedule the meeting?"

"I'd love to," Sydney said regrettably. "…if that were in my power. But unfortunately, it's not my call."

"Sydney can come over another night," Will interjected. Vanessa gave him an exasperated look, and Sydney smiled.

"I'll be in town for a couple more days," Sydney lied. "I'd love to reschedule for another night."

"And I'll cook next time," Vanessa said, elbowing Will lightly in the ribs. "Because this one right here makes it look like a bomb went off in the kitchen every time he cooks."

"I'd love that," Sydney said, and she meant it.

_When this is all over, I'll come back,_ Sydney thought to herself. _When I'm not a threat anymore, when I can come back into Will's life without endangering him, I'll come back._

"I'll be seeing you, then," Vanessa said, hugging her again. Over the woman's shoulder, Sydney locked eyes with Will. He knew she wouldn't be coming back, she could see that plainly. Not anytime soon.

_Or not at all._

Sydney forced a smile on to her lips, small and convincing. Vanessa released her and Will reached out for her, squeezing her hard. She wanted to tell him so many things; things she should have told him when she first walked in, things she should have told him years ago. She willed everything she felt for him in that embrace.

"Cya, kiddo," Will said. Sydney let him go, in every way she could. Walking out the door, Sydney knew she was leaving behind one of the last remnants of a life she understood, a life she longed for. Will and Vanessa could have what she was supposed to have with Danny. She'd help them have that life, by staying as far away as she could.

Sark felt Fallon's hot breath against his hipbone and he looked down at her, tangling his fingers in her hair. She moaned softly as she continued her downward descent but Sark remained silent. Staring at the ceiling, he willed himself to think of nothing but this room, nothing but the sensations this woman was trying enthusiastically to draw from him.

It had been months since a woman had touched him like this. And yet, he was more acutely aware of the abrasive material of the sheets underneath his naked back than the feel of Fallon's teeth drawing down the last bit of clothing on his body. She was lithe, eager, and attractive; she was everything he could have wanted.

His buzz was waning, and the haze he so blissfully had indulged in was fading into something considerably uglier. Sark hardly registered as Fallon took him into her waiting mouth. Hate seethed from his every pore.

She was miles and miles away and Sydney was ruining this for him. She was somewhere in the backwoods of Wisconsin fucking Will Tippin and Sark was letting her destroy him. How had he let this happen? How had he let her take this away from him, the one thing he could glean the smallest bit of pleasure from? She was beating him at his own goddamned life and he was just sitting back, letting her do it.

_No,_ he told himself. _No one controls you. You answer to no one. Especially not Sydney Bristow._

Seething, he quickly shifted position. He grabbed Fallon and flipped her on her back, pinning her to the bed. She giggled appreciatively and he shook his head.

"Don't talk," Sark said seriously. She nodded, smiling, keen to play along with him. She squirmed against him, wanting him to touch her. Closing his eyes, his lips began their assault on her neck, stomach, breasts. He ignored the soft coos and moans he elicited from her, trying to block out everything but his skin on hers. With his eyes closed, she could be anyone.

Anyone at all.

Sydney took the first flight she could find to Los Angeles. After her arrival in the city she once called home, she did not linger. She found the bank from the address Will had written down. Funnily enough she remembered passing this bank on her daily commute to Credit Dauphine.

The flash drive was unremarkable, and Sydney tucked it in her purse for safe keeping. The plane ride from L.A. to Phoenix was a short one and gave her very little time to rest before she was forced to face the home she had left only the day before. She hadn't been gone long enough, she wished she could just stay away for days, weeks.

_But how long has it been since you've done something you've truly wanted?_

The thought of seeing Sark so soon filled Sydney with dread, but she knew she'd have to find him. She'd made a copy of the flash drive on the plane and she'd have to give it to him. _If he hasn't already gotten bored with the project already,_ she thought to herself.

She had to think rationally, and the rational answer was that she wouldn't be able to get her parents back without Sark. Financially, she wouldn't make it much longer if she had to fund equipment and resources by herself. Missions would be more than arduous; they'd be almost impossible solo. Even the simple task of sifting through files on the flash drive would take her days, if not weeks, if she had to do it by herself. If she was going to be coldly rational about what needed to be done to save her parents, she couldn't avoid the rational decisions that went against her basic instincts.

Walking to her bedroom, Sydney knew he wasn't in the house, and hadn't been back since he'd left the previous morning. Pushing any sort of anger she possessed for him to the back of her mind, she picked up the phone and dialed Sark's cell. She let it ring seven times before hanging up. The anger she had tried to ignore raged heatedly; how _dare_ he ignore her call?

Seething, she stomped her way to the kitchen. She made to open the fridge but stopped, spying an open phonebook on the island counter. Slamming the door on the refrigerator with a little more force than necessary, she pulled the phone book toward her. Among a few crossed out entries, there was a circled address of a hotel.

Groaning, she tore the circled entry from the book and stuffed it on her pocket. There was no use putting off the inevitable. Grabbing her car keys and a copy of the flash drive from her purse, Sydney fought off the desire to drive and keep driving, far enough away that no one would find her. She only needed to travel a few miles, say a few words, and she would be done with it.

_Until you need him again,_ said a nagging voice in her head. Shaking the thought out of her head, she locked the house behind her and climbed into her car.

The hotel wasn't far, and upon arrival Sydney wondered how Sark could have brought himself to stay somewhere that had less than 5 stars.

_He __did__ stay on your couch for a month,_ quipped the same, stupid voice in her head. _And never complained once._ Not wanting to know where this nagging conscience was getting its quips from, Sydney walked from the car and through the lobby of the hotel. No one was manning the front desk and Sydney sighed appreciatively at her good luck.

Casting a quick look around for employees, she hopped over the desk and clicked a few keys of the keyboard. The guest directory flickered on to the screen and Sydney quickly scanned the list for any names that looked familiar.

It only took a few seconds, but there it was. Ben Hollier.

_"I'm Agent Hollier. I'm with the CIA, Portland office."_

He used it in North Korea, with Leonid Lisenker, in that convincing American accent. Sydney thought wistfully of all the trouble she could have saved herself and most likely many other women if her hand had slipped with the knife that she had held against his most prized possession. Sydney quickly noted the room he was staying in and quickly hopped back over the desk partition.

Walking briskly, she reached in her purse and had the flash drive copy in hand. She intended to hand it to him, tell him she'd call when she needed him next, and be gone within minutes. _Intended_ being the operative word.

Taking a deep breath, Sydney rapped loudly on the hotel room. Looking down, she saw he had placed the "Do Not Disturb" sign over the door handle. Sydney casually removed the sign and threw it somewhere over her shoulder.

On the other side of the door, Sark reluctantly lifted his throbbing head from the pillow. He distinctly remembered putting the "Do Not Disturb" on the doorknob last night. He let his head fall back onto the pillow when the knocking sounded again, louder this time, and more insistent. Fallon was in the shower and Sark had the unpleasant realization he would have to face this already dreadful day.

Not bothering to put on pants, Sark slowly lifted himself from the bed and went to the door in his underwear. Planning on giving the person knocking an earful, he jerked the door open forcefully.

"What the _hell_ do you…Sydney?"

Eyes wide, Sark quickly cast a furtive look over his shoulder toward the bathroom, before facing a decidedly annoyed-looking Sydney Bristow.

"Here, Mr. _Hollier_," Sydney said, thrusting the copied flash drive into his hand. Her eyes automatically flickered downward, noticing he was clad only in his boxer briefs. She jerked her head upward, looking him dead in the eyes. "It's the Project Christmas files."

"Uh…" Sark mumbled, looking at the device. He distantly heard the shower turn off and quickly stepped forward and pulled the door behind him. "Thanks, I suppose."

"I'll call you when I need you," Sydney spat, a little more forcefully than she had intended. Turning on her heel, Sark almost considered letting her leave.

"Did you have fun in Wisconsin?" He called after her. His comment came out clipped and vindictive. "You're back a bit early, though. Decided you wouldn't lead him on this time around? Or has Will finally come to his senses and gotten over you?"

Sydney whipped around, but before she could open her mouth to retort, a voice sounded from inside the hotel room. Eyes wide, Sydney pushed past Sark and pushed open the door that he hadn't quite closed.

Fallon, clad only in a towel and still wet from the shower, looked surprised but quickly recovered upon Sydney's intrusion.

"You must be Sydney," Fallon said with a small smile playing across her face. "The truck driver."

The silence that followed lasted only moments, but to Sark it felt like an eternity. He knew he didn't need to explain himself. She didn't care about him. She didn't care about what (or who) he did. He didn't need to answer to her.

But there it was, everything he had wanted and at the same time dreaded written plainly across her face. And as quickly as her expression flitted across her face it disappeared. And just as unexpectedly, she laughed. Shaking her head, she back away from him and then turned around, walking to her car.

"Sydney," Sark called imploringly. He groaned and put a hand to his aching head. He didn't need this.

_Just let her go,_ said a tired voice in his head. _What's the point?_

_Irina is the point,_ he reminded himself. _It's not about you. It's not about Sydney._ Cursing her as she sped off in her car, Sark walked quickly back in his room and searched for his clothes. Throwing on a pair of grey slacks, he had forgotten Fallon was even there until she spoke again.

"You're going after her then?" She didn't sound jealous, or even slightly annoyed. She was speaking matter-of-factly; more of a statement than a question.

Sark sighed, gathering up his things and shoving them into his overnight bag.

"I don't have much of a choice not to."

A beat passed as he threw the last of his things in the bag. He picked up the bedside phone and pressed it between his ear and shoulder as he button up his shirt.

"So will I see you again?" Her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

Looking up at her, still clad only in a towel, he quickly glanced away, turning his attention to the phone and punching in a few numbers.

"You were exactly the person I needed last night, but I'm not exactly in the position to be dating right now. I wouldn't be good for you. Besides, to be completely honest, you're not really my type."

More amused than offended, she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"What is your type then, exactly?"

He offered her a grim smile. "Emotionally unavailable."

Turning his attention back to the phone, he spoke. "Hello, operator? Can you connect me to a local cab company? Thank you."

"Don't bother," Fallon said, dropping her towel. Sark thought for a moment she was going to try something to get him to stay, but she surprised him with a decidedly more empathetic gesture. Reaching for her clothes, she started to dress.

"I'll take you."

Still holding the phone against his shoulder, Sark sighed.

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't," Fallon replied, pulled on her skirt. She smiled at him. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for true love."

Sark felt the objection to that statement form on his lips, but stopped.

_What would be the point in correcting her?_ Placing the phone back in its cradle, he looked up at her and simply said, "Thanks".

Putting on the last of her clothing, Fallon reached for her keys.

""Let's go."

Sydney didn't yell. She didn't punch anything. She sat quietly on her couch and waited for Sark's arrival.

At first, she couldn't identify the feeling that had rushed through her body at seeing Sark's newest conquest. Those few indecisive moments in her car scared her. She wondered if her reaction meant that he had gotten to her. That she actually cared for him.

But when she got back home, she sat down and assembled the pieces of her shattered emotions into something she could understand. She didn't care for him at all, she realized. She chastised herself for even entertaining the absurd notion. No, it was stupidity and carelessness that had made her run. Not just his, she admitted to herself, but her own as well.

Bringing him into her home, that was her first mistake. Misinterpreting his boredom and thrill-seeking behavior as dedication and passion to her mother, well, that was mistake number two. Thinking he had changed, thinking _maybe_ he was something more than what she'd always thought he was…that was her biggest mistake of all.

Sark opened the front door to find her sitting serenely on the couch. Taking a deep breath, he stood in front of her.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," he said defiantly.

She gazed up at him without really seeing him. "Then don't."

Sark huffed loudly and ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

"I don't understand you, Sydney. First, I think we're getting on rather well, and then you kick me out, to see Will Tippin, of all people. And now you act as if I've wronged you by spending one night with someone. Tell me how I'm supposed to make sense of this."

"Who's asking you to make sense of it?" Sydney said huffily. She just wanted him to leave. She just wanted to be alone. Didn't he sense that?

Sark dropped his hand from his hair and looked around, exasperated.

"You are…infuriating. Being with you and trying to make sense of your erratic mood swings is the most exhausting job I've ever had to deal with. What do you want me to do, Sydney? How am I supposed to work with you when you're treating me like a friend one minute and fighting me the next?"

"You are _not_ my friend," Sydney spat, the ire rising in her again. "And it is not your _job_ to make sense of me. It is your _job_ to do whatever you can to get my parents back. Where exactly does fucking a co-ed fall into that agenda?"

"You know what, Sydney?" Sark said derisively. "It falls in exactly _nowhere_. It was one night where I didn't have to walk in eggshells wondering which Sydney I was going to encounter that day. And in that respect, it was _amazing_. You have no right to be angry about me staying the night with someone, because it in _no way_ hinders our investigation. Because if you think otherwise, your logic is inheritably flawed."

Sydney felt the anger unfurling fast and hot within her. She stood up and got right up in Sark's face.

"You are being careless and unprofessional. How am I supposed to rely on you in the field when I can't rely on you to keep your dick in your pants for one night?"

Sydney realized how her tirade probably sounded, but she didn't care. Let him think she was jealous and hysterical if that's what it took to get his head into the game. She needed him to focus, needed him to bring his "A" game, and needed his help to keep her going. Because without him, she had come to accept, she doubted if she'd ever see her parents alive again.

Sark shook his head and stepped back from her, realization dawning slowly upon him.

"I suppose you were right about me all along," Sark said softly. "You can't trust me to be the person you need me to be. But the thing is, Sydney…I can't trust you to be the person I need you to be. The person I _thought_ you were. And because of that…I'm leaving."

"Good," Sydney said emphatically, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I didn't want you staying here anyway. Will you be going back to the hotel or what? You'll need to be semi close in case we get a break and need to –"

"No, Sydney," Sark interrupted softly. "You misunderstand me. I'm dissolving our partnership. I'm leaving and not coming back. It's obvious the differences between us are decimating the slim chances of us finding your parents alive."

"You're questioning they're alive at all?" Sydney asked incredulously. "I talked to my dad two days ago. How can you even _think_ that?"

"How can you _not_ think that?" Sark shot back. "We've seen one video of them, although who knows when that could have been taken. And sure, you've heard from your dad, but what about Irina? She could have been dead this whole time."

Sydney's fist shot out lightning quick, coming out of nowhere and connecting hard with Sark's face. She hadn't broken his nose (she hadn't felt that satisfying crunch under her fist) but she'd connected hard enough. Blood poured from his nostrils as he tried to quell the flow with his hand.

"Don't you _dare_ say that again," Sydney warned contemptuously. She hadn't even thought about hitting him; it had just happened. Her instinct, or her temper, she wasn't quite sure which, reacted before she could stop herself. And now he just stood there, blood dripping from his nose, looking at her like he had no idea who she was.

He walked away from her, crossing the room for a box of tissues. But more than that Sydney felt him walking away from _her_.

"You're going to have to realize," Sark said solemnly. "…that things might not work out like you wanted. You're going to have to face the person you've become, but I'm not going to be there for you to draw blood from whenever you get scared."

"Don't just stand there, analyzing me and thinking you've figured me out. They're _alive_, Sark," she yelled at him. "Can't you see that? Can't you?"

Sark's shoulders slumped in something that started as a shrug, but ended up a low sigh. He pulled the tissue from his face, the blood smeared and dried around his mouth and nose.

"I hope so," he said quietly. He paused and let his gaze fall on her angry face for one brief moment before turning his back on her.

"Goodbye Sydney," he said resignedly, walking away from her, leaving her behind.

Sydney stood alone, dumbfounded, in the center of the room.

"Don't you walk away from me," she yelled. "Don't –"

The door shut, soft and definite, behind Sark. He heard her continuing to rage at him from behind the door. Sydney wouldn't run after him. He'd be back, any second now, ready to fight. He wouldn't give up the oppurtunity to fight with her, so she waited for him to come back. Outside, Sark listened to her yelling. It didn't stop when the taxi he called finally arrived.

The hours passed like minutes on the plane from Arizona to the Greek Isles. Sark tried to look at the files on the flash drive during the flight, but it seemed as if he forgot a line of text the minute he stopped reading it. He finally gave up and sat in silence, watching the clouds out of the plane window drift lazily by.

When he finally arrived at his villa he was exhausted and yet, as Sark laid on his king sized bed, he couldn't get over the feeling of how empty the house felt, how big and extraneous the extra space on the bed felt. He stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours until the anxious feeling faded into sleep.

Thousands of miles away, Sydney Bristow stared at her own bedroom ceiling, hating herself for feeling so alone.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter 7, Part 2

1. Beck, "Lost Cause". **Listen to When:** Sydney wakes up and her and Sark talk about the past night's events; Sark leaves.

**Lyrics:**

Baby you're a lost, baby you're a lost  
Baby you're a lost cause

2. Matt Wertz, "Lonely Tonight". **Listen to When:** Sark sits at the bar and is approached by a lovely woman.

**Lyrics:**

3. Joseph Arthur, "Honey and the Moon". **Listen to When:** Sydney visits Will.

**Lyrics:** _We're made out of blood and rust  
Looking for someone to trust  
Without  
A fight  
I think that you came too soon  
You're the honey and the moon  
That lights  
Up my night_

4. Lovage, "Stroker Ace". **Listen to When:** Sark and Fallon tell their tales of woe and end up in bed together.

**Lyrics:** _stroke that shiny coat  
stroking is the antidote  
stroke that, it's a start  
only for the wild at heart  
stroke that shiny coat  
stroking is the antidote  
stroke that shiny coat  
stoking's what it's all about_

5. Hawksley Workman, "Stop Joking Around". **Listen to When:** Sydney meets Vanessa.

**Lyrics:** _please be here  
until the morning  
hold my hand  
until the morning  
chase my fate  
into your promised land  
please be here_

6. Rachel Yamagata, "Worn Me Down". **Listen to When:** Sydney comes home after going to the bank, decides to find Sark, and is surprised at what she finds.

**Lyrics:**

7. Matt Nathanson, "Loud". **Listen to When:** Sark follows Sydney home and they argue. Sark leaves.

**Lyrics:**

I remember your thread thin arms  
I remember your hands  
And how easily  
It seemed to me  
That they could rip me open

Baby, I'm falling away  
Baby, I'm falling away

Wasted my Septembers  
With you stuck up in my head  
Raced the days closed  
In the hopes that the mornings would swell again

Don't offer me rewards  
That's a weight that I don't need  
I've seen stronger men draped over your shoulder  
So filled with praises  
Too drunk to leave


	11. Chapter 8, Part 1

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Chapter 8 is here! I wasn't sure if I should post this installment right before Harry Potter 7 comes out, but fans made their opinions very clear about me posting ASAP, and I must do your bidding! This first half of chapter 8 is a little shorter than some of the other chapters I have posted, but that doesn't mean it is any less entertaining! In fact, I think this chapter might end with best cliffhanger so far...I'm a bit in love with it, actually. If you want to download the music featured in this chapter and see some graphics associated with some of the characters, please check out my livejournal page. Just do a search on livejournal for the member "wakingepiphany", and you'll find it (I'd post the actual link but I'm not actually sure how). So please, read, and enjoy!

Sydney had expected Sark to come crawling back within a day or so. Once he'd gotten over himself and how ridiculously immature he had been, she'd find him one morning sitting on the couch, tail between his legs.

Only he hadn't come back.

She'd busied herself looking over the Project Christmas files, investigating past leads, but as she did so she'd been acutely aware of the hours becoming days, and the days had becoming weeks.

Sark had been gone for three weeks when Sydney finally stopped looking to find him sleeping on the couch when she walked into the living room. She found it fitting and more than a little maddening that the day she stopped looking for him was the day she found the profile of Julian Lazaray in the Project Christmas files.

Sydney found the irony of it all was just too damn much.

She found Sark's file, nestled between the Project Christmas profile of Edie Laurent, agent in the French intelligence agency (missing in action), and Cole Leonid, Russian mobster (deceased). Sydney hesitated momentarily before opening Sark's file, but realized that treating him any differently than the other Project Christmas children would be playing into exactly what he would want.

She read through the file, wrinkling her brow curiously at the scant amount of details the Project Christmas people had gleaned on Sark. Sydney skimmed over bits she already knew, until she came upon family history. Not sure she had read it correctly, or more likely, not wanting to believe what she had read, Sydney read this bit of information over several times before it sunk in.

Andrian Lazaray harbored a passion for the works of Rambaldi and had hoped to produce what several Rambaldi documents referred to as, "The Chosen One". This was before Page 47 was discovered and deciphered, listing one Sydney Anne Bristow as the fabled Chosen One. Four years after giving birth to the Subject, Juliet Sark Lazaray was diagnosed as infertile. Andrian Lazaray left to pursue a relationship with aforementioned Sophie Bardot a year later, in hopes their combined dedication to Rambaldi would produce The Chosen One and later The Passenger. There is no documentation that any such child was conceived.

Her mouth hung slightly agape, Sydney stared at her computer screen, a dull ache spreading across her chest. She felt stunned; the truth about Sark seeming so right and yet incredibly sad and almost tragically poetic. She could each of the pieces of his melancholy past fitting together to make the man he had become; an abusive father, a fanatical mistress, an alcoholic mother, and finally, the ward of a criminal.

She knew that somewhere, Sark was going over the same files. _Did he know Rambaldi was the reason his father left? Did he realize he was meant for the life she had suffered through?_

_If course Sark knew,_ Sydney thought ruefully to herself. _It was probably the most cathartic experience of his life, having Lauren murder his father._

The painful and tragic desire to kill a person who had brought you into this world was something Sydney could identify with, a feeling she could empathize with in Sark. There was a time in her life when she would have done anything to feel her mother's blood on her hands.

_And now look at me_, Sydney mused wearily to herself. _Acting on a fool's hope to save her._

Sydney closed her eyes, trying to draw up memories of working with Andrian Lazaray during her lost two years. She had heard her story through Kendall's words, but trying to dredge up memories of that time on her own was like digging through quicksand. She would think she'd glimpsed a tiny, fractured piece of her past, only to have it slip through her fingers, leaving her worse off than when she started.

Would she have done things differently if she had known Lazaray had done to Sark? He had been an innocent boy, corrupted by the same prophetic heretic that had ruined her own life. And yet, she hadn't turned it into some dark and ugly. She didn't sell herself to the highest bidder, killing and stealing to fill the hole that Rambaldi and Project Christmas had left inside her. No, feeling sorry for Sark made it only too easy to feel sorry for herself. Once you let yourself tread into that kind of thinking, it was a downward spiral into much worse things.

Sydney pushed her chair away from the computer, feeling restless. She knew she should keep going through the files; she'd only been over them an hour this morning. But she couldn't stand sitting any longer and needed to do something, _anything_, other than look though those files.

She'd read the morning paper; get her mind off the feeling of stagnation and inactivity seeping through her. Coffee cup in hand, Sydney walked to the front door and opened the front door.

A red envelope was there, waiting for her, looking almost as if it belonged peeking out from in between the sports and arts sections of her morning paper. Plucking it from in between the pages, she slid through the wax seal and removed the slip of paper, reading it with only the slightest feeling of trepidation.

She was ready. She could feel the familiar thrumming of blood through her veins in anticipation. She didn't need him.

She didn't need anybody.

He wouldn't say he'd given up on the Project Christmas files, exactly. No, Sark preferred to think of it as refusing to delve into a subject he'd already oversaturated in research years earlier. He'd been going through the profiles of the Project Christmas children, reading the same story over and over again. Talented, intelligent loner susceptible to coercion with a proclivity toward violence. There was nothing he didn't already know.

Irina had never made qualms about what he was, where he had come from. She didn't feed him some absurd story about going to summer camp for gifted children. She never told him that he was special.

_You are malleable_, she had said. _You can be molded into something great, something bigger and better than you are right now._ Ever since he had known what it really was, he'd looked for information on Project Christmas. There was a very memorable beating that took place after he'd broken into one of the offices at the "camp for gifted youngsters" when he was ten years old to look through their filing cabinets.

And yet, despite knowing he was being shaped and sculpted into something unnatural, he didn't balk from it, he didn't shy away from the Project Christmas programming. He was good at it, no, he was _great_ at it. Despite it being forced on him, Julian Sark knew it was more than just brainwashing. It made him into the person he was supposed to be, despite people's objection to that kind of life.

However, he knew he was missing something. Some all encompassing factor he was overlooking, something he knew he wouldn't find by pouring through endless dossiers. There was a stray thread somewhere, one he would be able to pick up and follow to the end of this madness. The only problem was, he had no idea what it was or where to find it.

Until it found him.

Sark had been cooking himself dinner for himself when Marta, his loyal and more often than not doting maid, came into the kitchen, wringing her hands.

"Mister Pitt?" She started tentatively. Sark turned slightly, keeping an eye on his cedar-seared salmon while he raised an expectant eyebrow to his housekeeper.

"Yes Marta?"

"There is…someone outside the gate, buzzing the intercom. Are you expecting someone? Or should I send her away?" She knew he did not receive visitors and that his security system was designed for just that purpose. But it was the pronoun "her" that had stopped him from immediately telling Marta to send whoever it was away.

It had been three weeks since he'd walked out on Sydney. _Had something happened?_ he wondered to himself. _Was she hurt? Had she been compromised?_ A thrill of dread shot through him.

And yet, before he could squash it down, something very similar to hope blossomed within him. He wanted it to be Sydney at the gate. He wanted her to be her again, her bullish, brutish self. He wanted the real Sydney Bristow to want him, enough to seek him out halfway across the damn world. He wanted….

_No._ All these and even more absurd thoughts ran through his mind before he forcefully pushed the ridiculous notions aside. He turned off the burner on his skillet and put the pan aside.

"No, I'll see who it is," Sark replied evenly. "There's nothing to be worried about. In fact, it's getting late. Why don't you head home for the evening?"

He could tell she was uneasy leaving him with a strange visitor at his doorstep, but he knew she would not linger. He wondered what she thought she could do if there was someone with ill intentions at his door. Trying to reassure her, he offered a small smile. But instead of reassurance, she squinted her eyes at him, looking even less sure.

"Go home, Marta," he said curtly. "I have business to attend to."

Not wanting to go against a direct order, she collected her bag and with a last, lingering glance, swept out through the back door.

Sark walked very deliberately to the intercom in the study, where he could view the surveillance monitors. Whoever was at his gate, she was turned away from the camera. He could see dark hair, a lean physique. He'd been the one to push her away, true, but maybe she had come to her senses. Maybe she was ready to let go of the red, white and blue sense of morality the CIA had programmed in her over the years and do what was necessary to get the job done. Maybe she was ready to drop her idea of the perfect, normal life before the heartbreak of never achieving it consumed her. _But am I ready to see her?_

Pressing in the intercom button, he leaned in close to speak.

"I thought I made my wishes perfectly clear, Sydney," Sark spoke very seriously into the intercom. "Unless you are dying or suddenly find me irresistible, I'm asking you to leave."

"How about a little from column A, a little from column B," said a familiar voice through the speaker. And yet, it wasn't Sydney's voice that met his ears. This voice was sultry, and yet at the same time, professional. It wasn't until he heard the faint echoes of the French Quarter and Bourbon Street underneath her words that he knew exactly who was showing up at his doorstep.

"Dr. Carlile, I see you finally got out of those handcuffs. To what do I owe the pleasure of your gracing my doorstep with your presence?"

He knew he should be more concerned about how the good doctor had gotten this address and why she was here, but from what he could ascertain from his surveillance equipment, she was alone. He was more curious than concerned as he listened to the Louisiana doctor continued speaking.

"I think someone is out to kill me, Mr. Sark. It is, quite possibly, the same people you were looking for when you spurned my advances in Spain. Firstly, I do not want to die. Secondly, I think I can be of some use to you. I need you to find these people, Mr. Sark. I need you to find them and I need you to kill them before they kill me. Can you agree to this arrangement?"

After deliberating with himself for a few seconds, Sark bent down to his computer and clicked a few keys. Outside, Dr. Carlile stepped back suddenly as the ornate wrought iron gates swung open to admit her. She heard the intercom crackle back to life as she passed through the threshold of the estate.

"Welcome to my Greek Isle estate, Dr. Carlile. Wipe your shoes before you come in. I feel we have some catching up to do."

exactly /i what this mission would entail, Sydney was relieved Sark wasn't there to offer some pithy and sex-laden remark about her choices. There were just so many jokes to be made at the expense of a spy needing to steal a painting from the administrative offices of a highly successful and famous strip club in Las Vegas.

There were, of course, complications. _There were always complications. It could never be easy._

She could actually get right into the room where the painting was located by repelling extremely carefully down a mechanical vent. However, because of the angle of the vent in addition to being lined with electrical wires, it would be physically impossible to get back up the way she came. Unless, of course, she had someone to pull her out. Which she didn't.

Lowering herself down the vent, Sydney's mind strayed momentarily from the mission. Something Sark had said, right before he left. She wasn't sure why it struck her so profoundly in that moment; her chest suddenly constricted and the tunnel around her felt too small. She had spent her entire adult life fighting. Fighting to make things right, to make things better if not for the child she had once carried in her womb but for the innocents like Francie, Will, and Danny.

What if her parents were dead? What would she be fighting for then? She'd just be an accessory to some faceless terrorist, this "Messenger", the kind of person she had risked her life so many times before to destroy. And what would be left for her, then? What kind of life could she hope to live?

She couldn't go back to the existence she led after Vaughn, no, _Micheaux_ had been killed and the baby she had come to love was lost. She had to believe there was more. She had to believe she could do something to make herself feel something again, to make herself feel whole. And if her parents ended up dead, and there was nothing left for her to fight for, she'd have to deal with that when the time came.

But, until then, Sydney crept downward in the shaft, knowing she was doing so blindly. Mechanically she continued her descent, until she felt the raised slats of the vent open under her hand.

Swinging the vent outward, Sydney mused how easy it was to maneuver out of a vent when you weren't lugging a member of Russian royalty behind you like an old, ruined carpet.

Shaking the memory out of her head, Sydney left down from the shaft and fell lightly on a very intricately carved pine desk. Careful not to disturb and files or papers strewn upon the surface of the desk, Sydney hopped from its surface to the floor.

Peering around, it wasn't difficult to ascertain which painting The Messenger had been talking about. He had said the painting would be of five people, four men and one woman. Clearly, the owner of the painting revered it. Set apart from everything else in the office, great care had been taken to showcase the painting. Illuminated under soft light and against a perfectly polished and hand carved frame, there was something about the painting that sent chills down Sydney's spine. The people in the picture sat around a circular table, with one dark-haired man set apart slightly from the rest.

_It was their eyes,_ Sydney concluded. Walking closer, Sydney noted the how the eyes of the subjects seemed to shine as if alive and simply not specks and dabs of paint. Realizing she had lapsed into some sort of daze, Sydney shook her head and got to work.

There were the wires, of course; sensors that would trigger the alarm should someone want to steal the work of art. They were easily bypassed with a shot of nitrous to the pressure sensors, effectively freezing the sensitive alarm nodes on the frame. Lifting the heavy frame from its base, Sydney held her breath, but when no alarms sounded, she quickly set the painting down to cut it out of its casing.

It wasn't until the knife was in her hand that she noticed the placard on the bottom of the painting's frame, its shine dulled since taken out of the soft halo of light where it originally hung. Tilting the frame slightly, Sydney squinted, trying to read the tiny lettering.

"The Five Prophets"

Sydney drew her hands back as if she had been burned. Her eyes roamed feverishly over the painting, over the people with eyes too alive to be mere canvas and paint. Sydney knew she should stop staring and cut the painting from its frame. Time was ticking away as she wasted the precious element of surprise by allowing her to be cast into a stupor by this stupid painting.

Casting one last look at the black haired men set apart from his companions around the table, Sydney carefully edged her knife along the edges of the painting, separating the canvas from the heavy wooden frame.

Sydney carefully rolled the canvas and slipped it into the cylindrical, protective tube she had brought to transport the painting. She screwed the top of the tube tightly and held the tube out; confident it would look inconspicuous once she completed the transformation into her mission disguise.

Sighing deeply, Sydney reached for the zipper on the top of her black cat suit, pulling it down and stepping out of the practical spy garb. Reaching up, she pulled the tight beanie cap off her head and ran her fingers to fluff the long, red tresses of her wig. She untied her work boots and pulled them off, taking the remainder of the jumpsuit with it, leaving only her disguise underneath. Reaching to the vacuum-sealed bag she had tucked into the back of her jumpsuit, Sydney broke the seal with her knife and pulled out the impractically tall and pointy thigh high boots and put them on. Lastly, she pulled out the navy policeman's cap and placed on top of her fake copper curls.

Sydney adjusted the short skirt and cropped shirt of her sexy policewoman's outfit, knowing she would fit in perfectly walking through the debauchery below in the club. She tried to pull down the skirt to cover everything she wanted to keep private but the skirt was a mere sliver of cloth and Sydney prayed she would not be walking on any high walkways on her way out of the building where people could easily see her goods.

She picked up the cylindrical tube with the painting inside, and, fearing that if she tucked it next to the handcuffs on the scant belt of her skirt it would take the whole skirt down with its weight. Instead, she decided to hold the tube in her hand, confident it would appear to look like a policeman's baton to the average strip club patron.

Feeling slightly shameful but also quietly elated everything was going to plan, Sydney left the office, the strange painting hidden inside the baton she was slapping authoritatively against her palm. She felt the driving bass and thumping beat underneath her hands and feet as she descending the stairs before she heard it.

Steeling herself, Sydney stepped through a sheet of beads lining the doorway and into the strip club. She walked with purpose, owning everything around her with the sway of her hips. Women stood in the spotlights, illuminated as they grinded on poles, gyrated on chairs and danced provocatively on the laps of the male patrons. They were dressed like lascivious school teachers, vixenish cowgirls, and salacious cheerleaders, amongst the other, more traditional pasties and g-string dancers.

She was passing the shadowy area of the club where, for a little extra cash, patrons might be able to persuade their favorite dancer for something a little more interactive. Sydney could see the front entrance of the club now, a dark outline against the darker walls. She was almost there now; she could feel fresh breeze blowing her hair back as someone entered the club.

A hand snaked out of the darkness to take hold of her arm, causing her to stop suddenly. She didn't even see him at first; the shadows obscured his features perfectly. But then he slowly stepped out of the darkness, illuminating dark hair liberally streaked with grey, arms corded in lean muscle, and a face that, when younger, would have been the epitome of boyish charm. Probably the same age as her father, the man had the look of someone that had grown into his age, becoming more handsome as the years went on. Someone who didn't need to visit a strip club to see women naked, Sydney noted as she shook her arm from the man's grasp.

"You have something I want," the man said, in a quietly assertive voice. Plastering a smile on her visage, Sydney waved her finger back and forth, her other hand holding protectively on the baton holding the painting.

"I'm sorry, mister," Sydney said loudly, in a grating New York accent. "My shift just ended, I gotta get home to my kid. Try to get in as much time with him as possible so my sleazebag ex doesn't try to get custody. But I work on Thursday, if you want to come back and see me then, sweetheart. Me and Denise do a shower scene you won't wanna miss."

The man chuckled. It sounded like something he didn't do often, as if the laughter surprised him. But it was in that laughter, the dry, unprecedented snigger, that Sydney knew something was wrong.

"While that would be more than interesting," the man continued, with a French slight accent to his voice. "…you misunderstand me. You have something that I want. Something that I need. You may be good, Miss Bristow. But I am better and entirely more desperate than you realize."

His eyes went down to the baton holding the five prophets painting and then she saw the TASER in his hand. She hadn't even had a chance to run before she felt the 50,000 volts of electricity pass through her body. Getting punched or kicked, Sydney's body could at least understand that kind of pain. The TASER is a kind of indescribable, foreign pain that Sydney couldn't even begin to comprehend as the man scooped her up from the floor and placed a foul smelling rag over her face. In the haze that was beginning to fade into black, Sydney tried to call out. She could see people around her, but they so engrossed in their own debauchery they didn't seem to notice she was falling, falling into a deep, dark hole…

"So, Dr. Carlile –"

"Please," interrupted the beautiful doctor. She re-crossed her legs on the couch across from Sark, who stood on the other side of the room with his arms crossed. "Call me Annabelle. I think we are part formalities, Mr. Sark. And what shall I call you?"

"Mr. Sark will do just fine," Sark answered, somewhat curtly. "And as long as you're feeling so informal, you'll pardon my rudeness when I ask what the _hell_ you are doing at my home and why you feel as if you're entitled to my help. I don't take kindly to ambushes."

Dr. Carlile smiled at him; a small, half smile that indicated she was not feeling as lighthearted as her words indicated.

"Well, Mr. Sark, I think it was your little escapade with that darling brunette that did me in. Whoever brought me to that east European hospital and taught me that procedure, this Prophet Five as you call them, must have known you contacted me. Unfortunately, they don't know I haven't told you anything. There's nothing to tell. But I could have, and that's what matters to them."

She shifted on the couch, clearly not as comfortable as she would have lead Sark to believe. He could see the fear in her now, bubbling quietly to the surface. The way she held her hands together, the tone of her voice, yes, but it was her eyes especially that betrayed her fear.

"After you left me in that hotel room, I waited for hours for someone to find me. And when someone came, it wasn't the hotel staff. I was taken directly from that hotel back to that hospital, that very same hospital where I learned the procedure. I as good as had a gun held to my head as I taught the procedure to a young, male doctor. After almost a month, when the doctor had mastered the procedure, I was let go. After a few days and more than two million dollars later, I was able to find your whereabouts. You are a difficult man to track down; Mr. Sark, and now that I've found you, I'm not letting you out of my sight until I know you've killed whoever is coming after me."

Sark leaned against the doorframe, taking in Dr. Carlile's story.

It wasn't a matter of determining if she was telling the truth, he could tell she was scared. It was just another roadblock in his way to finding Irina and being done with this whole mess. He didn't need the hassle, he didn't need this woman ruining how far he'd already come.

Knowing he should be more concerned with his safety and security measures, Sark couldn't help but feel a bit insulted that it took only two million dollars to smoke out his whereabouts. He'd need to move now. _How incredibly aggravating and inopportune._

"If you'll indulge me for a second, Doctor," Sark started, a note of skepticism creeping into his voice. "…why let you go? If these people, let's say they are Prophet Five, wanted you dead, why not just kill you when you were in their possession? There is no sense to it. All it does is bring you to my door, putting me and my work in danger. How do you know I won't kill you just to save myself the trouble of Prophet Five knocking down my door?"

Dr. Carlile's demeanor changed perceptively. The smile that now stretched across her face wasn't a façade to disguise her fear. No, this smile was a different entity all together. Like a child with a naughty secret, she smirked at him. The Cheshire Cat had nothing on the doctor.

"Because of her."

She said it ever so matter-of-factly. She leaned back on the couch, her arms crossed over her impressive chest, her head cocked to one side as she appraised him.

"Tell me, where _is_ darling Sydney," the doctor purred to Sark. "I had _so_ hoped to see her here. I had imagined you two as a Bonnie and Clyde type, whisking away to fabulous locales, having wildly experimental sex wherever you went. Have you had a lover's spat?"

She was incredibly bold, and in another time and with another person, Sark might have gotten angry at her presumption. A small part of him actually enjoyed the fact that Dr. Carlile had gotten the impression Sydney and he had been more than associates. But he hadn't the time or the energy to lash out. He wanted this woman out of his house, out of his life; the quicker, the better. He felt an ache start to form above his right eye and he rubbed it absently.

"Miss Bristow and I are merely business partners," Sark replied evenly. "…helping one another locate the whereabouts of a mutual friend. We don't need to report our whereabouts to one another, and I'm sure if she were here she'd resent the implication of any romantic interactions between us."

"But you don't," Dr. Carlile interrupted. "…resent the implication of romantic interactions between the two of you." It was a statement, not a question. Sark felt like he should do something to wipe the smirk off the doctor's face, but he was more tired by her bravado than angry.

"Would you?" Sark asked knowingly. He pulled his hand from his head, but the headache remained. He wanted this conversation to be finished; he could do with a bit of a lie-down.

"It seems like an awful lot of work," Dr. Carlile mused aloud. "…to find a friend, considering what you did to me. Why are you _really_ doing all of this?"

Sark turned his gaze away from her, and Dr. Carlile could see although he hadn't moved, Julian Sark was very far away indeed.

"I already told you. The person I'm looking for is my friend," he answered quietly.

"Friend? Hell, I've got lots of friends."

"I don't."

After a lengthy silence, Sark pressed on.

"Listen, Dr. Carlile," Sark started. "While I can appreciate that my actions could have, quite possibly, put your life in danger, it is just that: _your_ life. I am entirely too busy with my own problems to worry about yours. Hire a bodyguard, hire a hit man for whatever I care. You just need to leave my premises immediately or I will be forced to…"

Crippling, indescribable pain exploded behind Sark's eyes before he could finish his thought. He was falling; falling fast and hard onto the hard wooden floor. He heard a scream, _oh God, I'm screaming_, as he held his head in his hands.

Dr. Carlile was beside him in an instant. She was pushing him forcibly onto his back and putting something soft beneath his head to keep it from smacking the hard floor. Reaching into her purse, she brought out a miniscule flashlight and with the other hand pried open one of Sark's eyelids. She flashed the light in front of his eyes, but he couldn't see it, he couldn't stay still.

"Mr. Sark, talk to me. Are you an epileptic? Are there pills you need to take? Come on, baby, stay with me here."

Somewhere beneath the haze, far beneath the firebomb exploding in his mind, there was a small light, a tiny flicker of realization that Dr. Carlile was a neurologist. If there was anyone to be around while having an episode, someone who might understand and help him out of this unendurable pain, it was her.

His vision was starting to fade. The doctor was a blur of dark hair and white skin as he tried to push the pain away, tried to compartmentalize and focus.

"My…head," Sark stuttered. He was thrashing wildly now. One of his legs connected with a nearby lamp, sending its entirety crashing to the floor, showering the two of them with glass. He felt a shard of glass slice through his palm, but it hardly registered against the all encompassing agony cutting through his skull. His bloody hands were in his hair, raking against the skin of his head, but nothing would stop the torment.

"Your head?" Dr. Carlile sounded far away, so far away, but she was right next to him, feeling the pulse on his jugular. "Don't quit on me now, Mr. Sark. I'm right here. I'm right here…"

But she wasn't right there. Because he was leaving her, falling into blackness, welcoming the numbness. In the blackness there was peace, in the blackness there was no pain. He was falling away…

Waking up was like walking in thick fog that rolled in and out in waves. Sydney's head lolled to one side, jarring her out of an unconscious state. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth and her eyelids felt heavy. She struggled to open her eyes, and when she finally did, she wished she had kept them closed.

She was tied to a chair, hands and feet bound. Her ridiculous boots were standing in about two inches of filthy water. _Sewer water_, Sydney surmised, glancing up at the many pipes lining the small, dank room. She smelled alcohol from the rag that had been pressed over her mouth mixing unpleasantly with the scent of sewage, causing her stomach to lurch. The after effects of the TASER were beginning to fade, but her nerve endings still felt raw as her skin rubbed against her bonds.

"I see you're awake," said the ironically melodic voice of her captor.

Sydney blinked and the man came into focus. He walked toward her; slowly and methodically. The baton carrying the Five Prophets painting swung lazily in his hand.

"Who are you?" Sydney managed to choke out. She struggled futilely against her bounds and her captor smiled.

"I've been going by Faust for quite some time now," the man answered. "I think I'll let you call me that."

"How fitting," Sydney replied darkly. "So I guess the question to ask you is when and for what price did you sell your soul to the devil?"

"If I told you," said Faust, pulling up a chair opposite her. "Then I wouldn't have very much power over you, would I?" He sat, laying the baton over his lap. He drummed his fingers over it, as if contemplating something.

"What do you need from me?" Sydney spat at him.

"Need?" Faust asked innocently. "I have what I _need_ right here. What I _want_ is the reason you tried to steal this painting."

"_Tried_ to steal it?" Sydney laughed dryly. "Looks like I _actually_ stole it. Why, are you jealous? Couldn't get it yourself, thought you would cut out the middle man by ambushing me?"

"Jealous?" Faust asked skeptically. "Hardly. Using your sexuality to get what you want doesn't exactly take the intelligence of a rocket scientist."

"You know," Sydney said sarcastically. "I never found rocket scientists to be all that smart. One of the most socially retarded people I ever met was a rocket scientist. That is, until I met you, of course. You should work on your people skills. Maybe I would have just _given_ the painting to you if you'd asked nicely."

Faust sniffed amusedly. Reaching behind him from a small table, he pulled out a cloth bag and unrolled it slowly.

"I think we both know how ludicrous your statement really is, Miss Bristow. Now, for your own sake, please indulge me. Why do you need this painting?"

Sydney's face changed. She looked conflicted, and stole another look at the small bundle that Faust was unrolling. She seemed to steel her resolve, and sighed resignedly.

"Ok," she said, clearly upset. Faust leaned in slightly, eager to hear what she had to say.

"There is this place," Sydney said slowly. "…above my fireplace that has been empty since I moved in and I can't find anything that really goes with the color scheme I have going on. Nothing seems to go and I think this painting will really tie the whole living room together."

Sydney could see Faust's face fall slightly and she knew she had him. She laughed low and hard and though nothing changed in his stoic face, she could see he was infuriated. It only made her laugh harder.

"I find," Faust said in a low voice. "That the tried and true methods really are the best. Tell me, Miss Bristow," he said, pulling a thin, wooden stick out of the cloth bag, "how familiar are you with bamboo chutes pushed under your fingernails?"

"Well, it's been awhile," Sydney replied. "But if you hum a few bars, I'm sure I'm sure it'll come back to me."

Faust smiled. It was a chilling smile, and Sydney fought hard not to let the fear show in her face.

"It would be my pleasure, Miss Bristow. I can't wait to hear you scream for me."

Sydney tried to go to another place in her mind. The place she went to when Suit and Glasses ripped her teeth out. The place she went when Vadik put the mask over her face and water filled her lungs. The place she went when Danny died, when Vaughn betrayed her; the place where pain could not reach her.

The only thing that kept her in this plane of existence, in the place where Faust was pushing the bamboo chutes into her bloody nail beds, was the sound of her own screams echoing uselessly against the walls of her captor's warren.

Time had stopped for Julian Sark. He was drowning in an endless sea of bad memories and blood and praying for his own end had only brought his torment to new levels of pain. He didn't know how long he had been gone. Minutes, hours, days…they all seemed endless as he lay trapped in his own mind.

Then it happened. Painstakingly precise and unbearably slow, everything seemed to shift. The bright, shiny rivers of blood in his mind darkened, shot into stark contrast against a glaringly white surface. The pain had dulled, now only aching in time with the slow, steady beat of his heart.

Only when he felt very real sensation of dried blood on his hands and broken glass under his back did he think he actually had woken up. Forcing his eyes open, he peered down at his hand. There was a long, jagged slash across his left palm, coating both of his hands in blood. In his right hand, he held a letter opener.

He dropped the sharp object, trying to recall when he had picked it up. Had he been opening a letter? Had he been careless with the letter opener, cutting his hand? Was that what he had been doing before the headache had come on?

_No_, he knew instinctively. _That hadn't been it at all._

There was blood on the floor, he saw now. Thick, caked-on blood clinging to broken shards of light bulb looking like some cathedral of the macabre's stained glass window. It was everywhere; there was so much blood. _Too_ much blood for a cut hand. There was a trail of it, a distinct set of droplets leading away from him, leading away from…_Oh God, there's a pool of it._

Pushing himself off the floor, feeling small bits of glass embed themselves into his already ruined hand, Sark walked mechanically, following the blood trail, each footfall descending in time with each throb of his head, with each increasingly rapid heartbeat.

She looked liked a tragic storybook princess, pale and beautiful, with her dark hair framing her face like a halo. She could have been sleeping; her face, surprisingly calm and at peace. Only the dark, bloody slash across her throat marred Dr. Carlile's beautiful, porcelain doll-like visage. He felt the world spinning around him, felt his knees go out, but she was still there, still beautiful, still dead. He was kneeling in front of her, as if praying at the alter of some ancient human sacrifice, the knees of his slacks soaking up her blood.

_What have I done? What have I done?_

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Eight, Part One

1. Evan and Jaron, "Distance". **Listen to when:** Sydney finds Sark's profile in her computer files and then finds a familiar red envelope on her doorstep.

Lyrics: _I cant take the distance  
I cant the miles  
I cant take the time until I next see you smile  
I cant take the distance  
And Im not ashamed  
That with every breath I take Im calling your name _

_I brave fire and I brave rain  
To be by your side I'd do anything  
I cant take the distance_

2. Tom McRae, "On and On". **Listen to when:** Sark has an unexpected visitor.

Lyrics: _So Lord, I'll wait for your reply  
But I won't hold my breath tonight  
You're so much empty sky _

_And it's too late  
The damage has been done  
You gave a child a gun  
Then turned around and run_

3. Gorillaz, "Dare". **Listen to when:** Sydney makes he debut as an amateur stripper.

Lyrics: _You've got to press it on you  
You just think it  
That's what you do, baby  
Hold it down, DARE _

_Jump with them all and move it  
Jump back and forth  
And feel like you were there yourself  
Work it out _

_Never did no harm  
Never did no harm_

4. Cake, "Friend is a Four Letter Word". **Listen to when:** Sark and Dr. Carlile chat it up.

Lyrics: _To me, coming from you,  
Friend is a four letter word.  
End is the only part of the word  
That I heard.  
Call me morbid or absurd.  
But to me, coming from you,  
Friend is a four letter word. _

_When I go fishing for the words  
I am wishing you would say to me,  
I'm really only praying  
That the words you'll soon be saying  
Might betray the way you feel about me._

5. Muse, "Showbiz". **Listen to when:** Sark has another episode, Sydney and Faust have a serious and painful discussion, and Sark wakes up to a horrible realization.

Lyrics: _Controlling my feelings for too long  
Controlling my feelings for too long  
And forcing our darkest souls to unfold  
And forcing our darkest souls to unfold  
And pushing us into self destruction  
And pushing us into self destruction_


	12. Chapter 8, Part 2

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.**  
Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Chapter 8, Part 2 was finished a bit sooner than previously anticipated. I wrote the entirety of this on tiny slips of paper while I worked the returns desk at a large, franchised, hardware store. It made the work day go by a bit quicker :-) In this chapter, there are a few familiar faces, lots of pork products, two dead bodies and one funeral. The soundtrack for this chapter is great and it contains the song that was the inspiration for the story's title, Foul-Weather Friend. Enjoy!

* * *

Of all the times she had been knocked unconscious, Sydney had never dreamed. Blissful, unfeeling blackness has always followed a kick to the head or an elbow to the temple. It was a welcome oblivion; undeniably more preferable to the painful reality that usually greeted her afterwards. 

This particular instance, however, was entirely different. Sydney had blacked out from the pain that Faust had elicited from her; the body's natural reaction to try and protect the mind from harm. But instead of retreating into the safe, calm blackness, a scene began to form in her mind. The clarity and detail of the dream made it seem oddly prophetic, as if she had already been at exactly this time and place and had simply forgotten it had occurred.

She was standing on a white sand beach, its unblemished surface occasionally married by pink shells. She was standing side by side with Sark, his short blond hair catching the gentle ocean breeze. They stood, watching the sea, the feeling of apprehension, anxiety, and fear that had plagued her since Vaughn's death felt lessened somehow. They stood, not as enemies, but as something far more ambiguous but sharing an undeniable connection that Sydney could not quite put into words.

They were parting, perhaps forever, but her mouth could not form the words she was supposed to say. She was shocked, and almost ashamed, of the genuine despair she felt at this, the end of their partnership. When she found she was able to speak, the words that came out were sincere, even tinged with a certain affection that she was sure Sark would be able to see, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. He could read her so well now; it was almost pointless to pretend they weren't something more than business partners.

Sark was talking now, his crooked lips forming words the omniscient Sydney couldn't hear. The Sydney on the beach was shaking her head no, and by the look on Sark's face, he had expected that would be her answer. There was no bad blood between them now, their past crimes and misdeeds forgiven, and they walked away from each other, each carrying the weight of the words left unsaid between them.

Something made Sydney stop in mid-stride, and she called out to Sark, her heart pounding in her chest. She ran to him, feeling the sand shift beneath her feet, the wind in her hair, but she couldn't run fast enough, there was something she needed to say, something Sark needed to hear.

She reached him and they stood facing each other for the first time since they set foot on the beach, and Sydney wondered how, after everything they had been through, how he could still look at her as if she were some perfect, flawless creature. She opened her mouth to tell him, the truth bubbling up in her throat, threatening to choke her if she didn't say it. The first word died on her lips as blood sprayed from her abdomen; a bullet pierced through her womb, and the warm liquid started to spread across her shirt and gently trickle into a pool in the sand.

Sark caught her before she fell and held her, cradling her like a child. He put one hand to the wound, and wiped the blood that had trickled from her mouth away with the pad of his thumb. He was yelling, screaming but there was no one around, no one that could help her.

His face looked strange, Sydney thought. His blue eyes were endless oceans, so big and blue. His face was taught with some emotion Sydney would have called fear if it had been anyone else expressing it. The pool of blood in the sand was growing larger, the setting sun shining off the precious liquid like a ruby-red jewel.

"Wake up, Sydney," a voice demanded. Sark's lips were moving but it was not his familiar British accent that was commanding her attention.

"Wake up, Sydney. Rise and shine."

Sydney felt a very real, very sharp pain in her stomach, making nausea rise up in her throat. She was no longer standing on a pink-shelled beach next to Sark, bleeding from a bullet wound to the abdomen.

She was, however, going to throw up. Sydney vomited spectacularly all over Faust's shoes. She felt vaguely sorry he wasn't wearing sandals as she tried desperately to open her eyes. She felt very off; a drug-induced grogginess with a side of nausea rolled over her in waves as Sydney forced her eyelids open.

"An unfortunate side effect of this particular truth serum," Sydney heard Faust say, as she struggled to keep her eyes from shutting again. Blurrily, she saw him shake his shoes, trying to rid them of her sick.

She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, because there was still darkness beyond the dingy, dirt encrusted windows of a sewer-like room.

"I call this serum The Naked Truth," Faust said smugly. "And while it is stronger than the usual sodium pentothal and cannot be undermined with methamphetamine to counteract the truth-telling, it does wreck a bit of havoc on the digestive system. The pain will only get worse the more you try to lie, not that you could with The Naked Truth."

Sydney opened her mouth to retort, but ended up vomiting again, this time soaking the cuffs of Faust's tailored suit pants, as well as his shoes again. Faust looked upward, as if silently asking God for strength. Sydney's stomach felt much better after expelling its contents, but a growing sense of apprehension was taking hold.

Without an antidote to The Naked Truth, Sydney's lies would begin to unravel, and everything she had worked for in the past few months would come crumbling down in moments. She needed to be proactive. She had to stall Faust until she could find a way to escape.

"Why is this painting so important to you?" Sydney asked pointedly. Behind her back, Sydney tested the chair, feeling the screws, trying to put pressure on the weak points as best she could without detection.

"As it is I that administered the truth serum to you," Faust replied drolly. "I think I will be the one to do the questioning. Why did you steal the painting?"

Lies filled Sydney's head, but the more she thought about them, the sicker she felt. She willed for some story to come from her lips, but the truth slipped out, like so much vomit on her captor's shoes.

"I was told to steal it by the person holding my parents captive," Sydney whispered.

Faust's eyebrows scrunched together in a way that reminded her of someone, but in the moment, she couldn't place who.

"Interesting. Who is this person who has your parents' captive?"

Sydney's stomach lurched.

"I only know him as The Messenger."

"The Messenger," Faust repeated, scratching the stubble on his chin. "So, you have no idea what this painting truly is?"

Sydney knew there was no wriggling her hands from her bounds. She did the only thing she could think of. Bracing the thumb of her left hand against the metal bars of the chair, Sydney used the chair to break the thumb on her left hand. The pain was excruciating, and she breathed heavily in and out of her mouth, waiting for the pain to dissipate. Faust must have interpreted this heavy breathing as Sydney trying to formulate a lie again and therefore fighting back the nausea. He took a step back as to save his shoes from more danger as Sydney answered him, while Sydney was able to remove the rope from her left hand, thanks to that pesky finger being out of the way.

"It has something to do with Milo Rambaldi," Sydney spat at him. She couldn't help to voice her suspicions. She worked to free her right hand.

"So, it spears you know more about this painting than you previously let on. Tell me, Miss Bristow. Do you believe you are Rambaldi's Chosen One?"

She hadn't anticipated this question. The words spilled out, if on their own volition.

"Yes."

Her answer surprised her. Not wanting believe what her mouth had uttered, Sydney looked inside herself. She didn't believe that she would render the greatest power unto utter desolation. But, if there really was a man named Milo Rambaldi, and whether or not the predictions he made were true, if there was person that he intended would bring forth his words, he intended it to be her. She was the woman on Page 47, whether she wanted to be or not.

"That surprised me," Faust said honestly, pacing back and forth in front of Sydney's chair. "I hadn't expected that to be your answer."

"Me neither," Sydney mouth said, without her consent. She had managed to free both of her hands, taking some skin around her wrists to do it. She had just hoped Faust would not ask what she was doing behind her back before she had a chance to strike.

"I am not a follower of Rambaldi," Faust said suddenly. "I'm not some cult-loving zealot fool. No, this painting, and Rambaldi in general, is a means to an end. And you, Miss Bristow, are both the beginning and end to this whole great adventure."

Sydney launched herself at him, connecting her bloody forearm to his throat. Taking advantage of the surprise moment, she turned Faust around and held him against the table.

"I'm taking the painting," Sydney panted in Faust's ear. She twisted his arm, hearing his shoulder pop as she dislocated it. He winced, but otherwise did not voice his pain.

"But before I go…" Sydney trailed off. She struck lightning quick, grabbing a syringe filled with The Naked Truth and plunging it into Faust's neck. She quickly turned him around, forcing him into the chair she had just vacated. Picking up the rope that had restrained her, she tied him up.

"I'm going to ask you a bunch of questions," Sydney said seriously. "And you are going to answer them immediately. What were you going to do with this painting?"

Faust struggled futilely against his bonds. Sydney could tell the serum was beginning to work. Faust's face had turned a sickly pale color; he groaned in pain and began to double over. Moments later, when he turned his head away from her and retched, did he finally speak.

"There is a formula encoded within the painting," Faust panted, clearly in pain. "It is said to have brought people who were on the verge of death back to life. My son is gravely injured; he will not live past the next few months without a miracle."

Having no other choice but to believe him, Sydney pressed on, her mind working feverishly to work out this information.

"Is this the formula that was used to bring Alison Dorec back after sustaining three gunshot wounds to the chest?"

It appeared as if he were struggling with himself to answer.

"I don't know," he finally replied. "It could be."

Sydney's mind was working a mile a minute. If this formula could bring someone who sustained serious injured back from the brink of death, could it heal someone suffering from a disease that Rambaldi himself created?

"Would this formula work no someone who is suffering from the disease that killed all the people in Sovogda?"

Faust looked around, wild-eyed, appearing as if he might vomit again. Sydney prayed he wouldn't, the smell was beginning to get to her. She cut to the point.

"Yes or no? Answer me!"

"I don't know!' Faust yelled. "It could. A Rambaldi antidote for a Rambaldi disease! If you let me keep the painting, I will duplicate the serum for you! But I need the formula or my son will die!"

Sydney crossed the room, to where she knew Faust had placed the painting. She tucked the cylindrical tube under her arm and adjusted her ridiculous policewoman outfit.

"The thing is, Faust," Sydney called to him as she walked the door. "This painting could save the three people I care about most in this world, and I will not let you, or anyone, take them away from me again."

She had already pushed the heavy metal door open when Faust's voice rang out.

"You're just as beautiful as he said you were."

Not wanting to take the bait, but knowing that he couldn't lie, Sydney turned.

"Who said this?"

Faust smiled. "My son," he answered proudly.

Sydney frowned. "What's your son's name?"

"My son's name is –"

The door Sydney had been about to exit through burst open, slamming into her injured arm and hand. The painting fell with a thud onto the damp floor as two men came toward her. Faust was still talking but Sydney could not hear him over the din. She kicked the first assailant, slicing a deep gash across his face with the sharp stiletto heal of her boot. She quickly moved to the second attacker, silencing him with a chop to the neck and a kick to the stomach.

The first assailant was recovering so Sydney quickly dropped to the floor in a roundhouse kick, picking up the fallen painting in the process. A shift hit to the temple with the hard edge of the painting's tube rendered the first assailant unconscious. Seeing how well it had worked with the first attacker, Sydney used the same method on the fallen second assailant.

Not knowing when a second wave of attackers might show up, Sydney walked through the door, leaving Faust behind without a second look. Her mind did wander briefly from the pain in her hands to Faust's son. Someone that was dying, someone who thought she was beautiful.

She quickly pushed the unimportant thought away. Sydney's heart soared at the possibilities that lay wide open to her. Unfortunately, her mind began to rationalize. Her decision would not be a simple one. Either she could appease The Messenger and hand over the painting, bringing her one step closer to rescuing her parents. Or she could find the encoded formula that could bring Nadia back from her long, silent sleep. Sydney needed to do both and she needed to do neither at the same time.

She just hoped the Messenger hadn't already left instructions for the painting's dead drop. If she could somehow duplicate the painting, or decode the formula equation, she could resuscitate Nadia. But the logistics of it all, the timing was too crucial to be done sloppily.

As Sydney exited the warehouse she had been held captive, still wearing her naughty policewoman's uniform, she wondered what Sark would say. She shook her head, reminding herself that Sark was the one that walked away, and any help he could have given her was wasted now anyway. She'd find a way to duplicate the painting without Sark. She had run rogue, solo missions for years without his help and resources. She needed to stop thinking of him, of the tiny blip in time where they were of some help to one another. He was nothing, he was a wasted effort.

Still, before she pushed the thought of him forcefully from her mind, she wondered what Sark would have done if she had asked him to duplicate the painting, if it meant putting Irina in harms way just to save her sister. Sydney thought she knew the answer, but it didn't matter now.

Sydney hailed a cab, reveling in the idea that she didn't have to take his feelings into consideration anymore. Not that she did that much anyway when they had been together. Knowing full well she probably looked like a hooker on the way home from a though night on the job, Sydney finally caught the attention of a yellow taxi and slumped into the back seat, clutching the painting protectively in her lap.

"The Bellagio", Sydney told the cabbie, indicating where she was staying for the night. The cabbie started her fare, and drove toward the blinding lights of the Vegas strip.

"Long night?" the driver asked knowingly. Not even bothering to issue him a dirty look or refute his insinuation, Sydney stared out the window.

"You have no idea."

With shaking legs and a pounding head, Sark stood up and stepped over the slain corpse of Dr. Annabelle Carlile. Her body would need to be disposed of, of course. However, there was something far more pressing on Sark's mind than a dead body in his kitchen.

He half walked, half stumbled into his study. Slumping into his leather desk chair, Sark pulled up the security feed from the inside of the house from the past 24 hours. After the clicks of a few keys, he was watching Dr. Carlile and himself talking silently on the screen. After a few minutes time, he watched his video self falter. Dr. Carlile had rushed over in an instant, but he had already taken out the lamp, shattering glass into a shower of crystal filaments. The doctor was trying to stop his flailing arms and legs to minimize his being cut on the glass, but he could see the strain of trying to do so had only gotten her cut herself. He saw her lift up her arm, a trickle of dark blood seeped down her porcelain skin. Still, she reached into her bag and tried to shine a flashlight in his eyes, but the seizures were too intense for an accurate assessment.

He watched as he finally laid still. The doctor stood up, grabbed a pillow from the couch, and stuck it under Sark's head.

Then, unexpectedly, she walked away. Trying to find her on the surveillance footage, Sark followed her progress through the house and watched her leave, back through the wrought iron gates and into her vehicle.

If she had only gotten into her car and sped away, Sark would not have a dead body on his hands and a growing fear in his mind. But no, Dr. Carlile had gotten something from her car, and seeing what it was, Sark cursed her for her altruism. She was getting her medical supplies, trying to take care of him. She was also holding something to her mouth and was speaking into it: a tape recorder.

She was walking back to the house when Sark spotted movement on the surveillance footage from inside the house. It was him. He watched as the Julian Sark on the video picked himself up off the floor, not even looking down at his cut and bloody arms.

His movements were oddly fluid and at the same time robotic; as if he were machine instead of human. With no hesitation, the Sark in the video went to a nearby desk drawer and pulled out the sharp letter opener. He moved swiftly from room to room, stopping to finally hide in the kitchen, his back against the wall, waiting.

Yet, despite the face he knew what was about to happen onscreen, Sark half-wished that a mysterious stranger would enter the frame and kill Dr. Carlile. At least then, at the very worst, he would need a better security system. The alternative to that scenario, the actual truth, was far more frightening than Sark dared to admit.

For once in his life, Julian Sark did not know what to do. If he didn't have control over himself, over his own actions, what kind of life could he lead? He would almost rather be dead than a pawn in someone's sick agenda, an agenda he did not agree to be a part of.

And yet, Sark waited, needing to see what he already knew: that he was no longer his own master.

Dr. Carlile was walking briskly, still talking animatedly into her tape recorder. As she came up upon the spot where Sark's body should have been, there was nothing but broken glass and a few small smears of blood on the hard wood floor. She looked around, confused, still talking into the tape recorder. She walked slowly, cautiously, from room to room, as if she was expecting someone to jump out from a dark corner and yell "boo".

Despite her caution, she hadn't heard the man she was trying to help grab her from behind and slit her pale, graceful throat.

Her hands automatically went to the wound, already pumping arterial spray all over the walls and floor. There was no stopping the slow, painful mechanism of death, and he could see the good doctor knew it too. Dr. Carlile grabbed at the Julian Sark in the video, clutching his shirt front. Looking down, the real Sark saw she had left her bloody handprints on him. Even through the video feed, he could feel her green eyes burning through him. _Why_, they begged him. _Why?_

The Sark in the video stood, impassive and unfeeling, as the doctor drew her final breath. It wasn't until the doctor laid quite still and the blood from her neck slowed to a trickle, did the video Sark. He put a finger to Dr. Carlile's ruined neck, just to make sure his work was done and made a move to drag the body suddenly stopped.

His hands flew up to his head and he staggered. The violent episode ended just as it has started; with a mind splitting headache that would leave Sark wondering what the hell happened to his sanity.

Sark turned the security feed off. Now that his suspicions had been confirmed, he stood and walked to the kitchen, where the arduous task of getting rid of the body of Annabelle Carlile waited for him. However, before he could start to dispose of the once vivacious woman, Sark turned her on her side, finding the tape recorder she had been carrying underneath her body.

Sitting in a relatively bloodless patch of the kitchen floor, Sark pressed play to hear the last words Dr. Carlile would ever utter.

"Patient name: Julian Sark," he heard Dr. Carlile say breathlessly into the recorder. "Presenting with seizures and complaining of extreme head pain. Appears to be presenting symptoms _very similar_ to the brain implant patients that were sent to me after stint in eastern European hospital. There is a very real possibility that Mr. Sark has been implanted without his knowledge, possibly with some new, unobtrusive method, as there was no scarring typical to the older implant patients. Mr. Sark…"

Dr. Carlile paused, as if confused. "…is no longer where I left him. He is probably extremely disoriented, possibly suffering from a temporary fugue state. Though Mr. Sark would definitely be opposed, I'm going to have to take him to the hospital for further tests and monitoring. Now, if I could just find him –"

And she had. He heard the wet, rasping sound of blood and air escaping through the gash in her neck. She was trying to speak, trying to communicate, despite the undisputed medical fact that the necessary muscles to do so had just been slashed. There were a few last, gaping breaths but, as the tape recorder ran, it eventually went silent.

Sark shut off the tape recorder and placed it in his pocket. His mind couldn't stop turning over the word "implant". He was a flesh and blood machine for someone unknown puppet master and he considered, for a moment, if suicide might be an option he needed to take. Entertaining this idea of being controlled, as opposed to some dysfunctional multiple personality or mental illness he was not aware of, was almost impossible to swallow. However, Sark has seen too much in his short life to disregard it as fantasy.

If a woman he had loved had been given another woman's face and body, if a Rambaldi device had turned millions of people into mindless zombies, if he had kissed Sydney Bristow and felt her desire mirror his, then anything was possible.

He couldn't work it all out now, what all this new information meant for him. What it meant for Irina. What it meant for Sydney. Right now there was a decomposing body in his bloodstained kitchen.

First things first.

Sydney returned to her house in the early morning feeling, not pleased or excited the mission has gone well and that she had only escaped with a few less fingernails and a broken thumb. No, she felt anxious, with a sense of foreboding washing over her, as if the other shoe was about to drop. She could feel that something had changed since she had last been home. Not physically different; her security system and video surveillance were clean, and nothing else had gone missing or had been moved.

Still, Sydney couldn't help but feel that a storm was coming. Something dangerous and formidable was waiting for her, and all she could do was wait for it to crash into her.

She hadn't come home to a scarlet envelope, so Sydney had started looking up both legal and illegal means of recreating works of art. The process of replicating a painting could take weeks, or, more realistically, months, for a perfect forgery. Months of free time was not something Sydney could spare.

She had only been home for two days when there was a knock at the door. Sydney hesitated, the feeling of dread rolling over her once more. She knew that if someone was here to kill her, they wouldn't knock and yet, it felt just like that. She felt an end coming. Still, she reached in her desk drawer and pulled out her glock, keeping it at the ready.

As she approached the door, she could see the top of a head, an arm, and a shoulder, peeking out from behind the glass surrounding the front door. It was an arms and head she recognized, someone very dear and yet, someone she did not want or need gracing her doorstep at this time.

But how could she deny him? Sydney's eyes welled up but she quickly wiped the tears away. How could she ignore this man? She couldn't. Her heart swelled as she tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans and opened the door.

"Hello Sydney," Marcus Dixon said softly.

"Dixon," Sydney replied, already pulling him into an embrace. She missed him; she hadn't realized how much until this very moment. Sydney wiped the tears that had sprung to her eyes away before she faced him. Sweet, dependable Dixon. She couldn't stop looking at his face, one she knew almost as well as her own. It was looking at this face, his familiar wonderful face, that Sydney knew. She knew the anxious feeling that had followed her the past few days manifested itself in this sweet face. Something was wrong. Someone was _very_ wrong.

"It was almost impossible to find you," Dixon said desolately.

"It was impossible to find me because I made it that way," Sydney said simply, but her sadness was evident.

"I know," Dixon sighed, as if bracing himself. "I think we should sit down for what I have to say." Eyes wide, Sydney wordlessly guided Dixon inside and fell onto a couch. Dixon took Sydney's hand in his. His hands were so familiar to Sydney. Her life had depended on the hands she was holding, so strong and warm, but she found no comfort in them now.

"I don't know how else to say this other than to just say it."

Sydney nodded, nothing bothering to wipe the tears. She already knew what he was going to say.

"Two nights ago, Nadia's heart stopped beating. The doctors tried everything they could to get it started again but in the end, there was nothing more they could do for her. I'm sorry Sydney. Nadia is gone."

Sydney had thought about this day, this possibility, just as often as she had thought about Nadia's recovery and had surmised that either way, she'd be wracked with emotion. And yet, knowing Nadia was dead, that Sloane's obsession had killed her, left Sydney feeling utterly numb.

Dixon was still talking, trying to explain. She heard words like, "no pain", "Sloane", "grief", "Weiss", and "funeral". But all Sydney could think about was that painting, that goddamned painting she risked her life for, the painting that could have saved her sister. Sydney had been too busy fretting the time away with Sark in a fruitless quest to save her parents. Nadia had been all alone, in a dreamless sleep, an orphan all over again as her sister left her behind and now, it was almost fitting, that Nadia had left Sydney behind.

And then, it could have been seconds or hours later, Sydney broke. The numbness gave way to great, heaving sobs. Her chest hurt, and there wasn't enough oxygen in the air.

Dixon held her, rocking her back and forth, rubbing her back. It wouldn't stop the pain; Dixon knew this. He had held Steven and Robin like this after Diane had been killed.

"It just hurts so bad, Daddy," Robin had sobbed. "When will it stop hurting?" He hadn't had an answer for them, and he didn't have an answer for Sydney. He still hurt. Every second of everyday was painful. Not having Diane around was a constant throbbing ache that Dixon carried with him always.

For Sydney, for someone who had already felt this pain more times than anyone should, Dixon thought that if he could take the pain away, he would. She deserved so much more than the hardships she had been dealt. She had lost Danny. She had lost her friend…what was her name? Francie, that was it. That Tippin kid was in witness protection. Vaughn? Or, the man Dixon thought of as Vaughn, but had really been Andre Michaeux, betrayed Sydney and then up and died. She was better off without that bastard, but Dixon wasn't sure if she thought that. Her mother was on the run, no doubt, still alive probably but destined to disappoint Sydney again. And Jack? Dixon had his suspicions there. But this was not the time or place to voice that.

This was all he could do for her, Dixon knew this. And he did it willingly, gladly even. Because she was his partner. She was his friend.

He held her, speaking soft words of comfort, until the tears stopped. She pulled herself together after a short while, and released herself from his grasp to pack some clothes. She was still in shock, Dixon knew, but this was a Sydney he knew all too well. A woman on a mission.

Dixon lead the way to his car and they were on the way to airport. The flight to Buenos Aires would take about six hours. They'd leave right from the airport for the funeral.

Bleach had seeped into the wounds of Sark's hands and arms, making them burn unmercifully. He didn't succumb to the pain. No, he welcomed it. The red, inflamed gashes reminded him that he was alive and aware. He had, briefly, considered burning the house down to destroy the evidence, but decided against it. Instead, he placed Dr. Carlile's body, wrapped in a shower curtain, in his large, walk-in freezer while he cleaned. Working through the night, he scrubbed every drop of blood with bleach, so even if the police did investigate, the luminal test would prove faulty.

There was a certain satisfaction in the manual, repetitive labor. Scrub, rinse, squeeze, scrub, rinse, squeeze. Sark reveled in the simplicity of it. Unfortunately, it allowed for much time for thought. Endless scenarios and possibilities ran rampant; all of them darker and more frightening than the last.

Dreams that had seemed a little too vivid, a shade too lucid for mere hallucinations, came crashing back to the forefront of his mind. He wondered now, how many of these illusions were actual facts and events? One particular scenario kept playing on repeat in his mind. Did he actually kill Michael Vaughn? The question haunted him as he scrubbed his sins away.

Five hours later, still questioning his sanity, Sark was certain he had erased all evidence of his crime. Well, all but one, crucial, 115 pounds of evidence currently in his freezer.

His tired, aching body protesting with every step, Sark went down to the cellar and opened the freezer. Dr. Carlile, lay on the ground next to a large box of frozen vegetables, stared sightless and accusatory at him. Wondering if remorse was an unfortunate side effect of this so-called implant, Sark carried her as best he could through his house and out to the car. One quick errand and then the good Dr. Carlile would be out of his life for good.

"10 hams, sir?" The grocer asked Sark good naturedly in Greek. "Having a party?"

"More of a date, actually," Sark replied casually, paying the man 230 euro.

"She's a fan of the pork products, then?" the young man joked.

"If you met her," Sark answered evenly, putting the hams into a cart. "…you'd understand."

Wheeling the cart to his car, the young grocer stared after him, confused but smiling.

Sark drove for miles with a dead body in his trunk and the interior of his car reeking of ham. If he got pulled over, he would have a very unfortunate situation on his hands. However, after driving two hours to the marshes, Sark had only seen sheep and cows in the way of animate objects.

It would be morning soon and he knew he needed to hurry if he was going to get this done before daybreak. Pulling the car to the stop beside a large swamp, Sark steeled himself for a moment. There wasn't any reason he should feel guilty about any of this. She had walked into his home, knowing what he was, even more so than he did at the time. She had put her own life in danger coming to him. Hell, her life had been in danger anyway. He might have killed her on his own volition, if given the chance. But he hadn't been given the chance, or the choice. He wasn't feeling guilty, he decided. He was feeling boxed in, enslaved, and defenseless. He had a body on his hands, yes, but at least he wasn't dead himself.

There was no time to waste. Sark exited the car and popped the trunk. Putting the doctor in the freezer relatively short after her death had slowed the decomposition process, to the point that you could still see what a beauty she was. Unfortunately, she wouldn't look like that for long.

Dragging the body close to the shore, Sark went back to the car, grabbed a few hams, and a ball of heavy duty twine. Crocodiles will eat a human body, even a half-frozen one. However, even a crocodile with the most discerning palate will devour ham. Not wanting to take a chance on having the body recognized, Sark was relying on the crocodiles voracious appetite to take care of things.

He did not want this, a crime he had no memory of committing, to be his ultimate undoing.

After a half hour of nauseating the smell and complicated knots, Sark had tied the 10 hams to the body. Sark stood up and almost reluctantly, pushed the now weighed down body of Dr. Annabelle Carlile into the water. She had been a flawed human being, with her appetite for younger men and a penchant for drinking too much. She had committed crimes, yes, but ultimately she had not deserved the ending she received.

"Goodbye, Dr. Carlile," Sark said softly, as the crocodiles began to circle the corpse. As the sun began to rise, Sark turned his back on woman who had tried to save him and drove away, trying to find a place to set fire to a slightly used car. He could use the walk.

"When I found out I had a sister," Sydney started, shakily. "I didn't know what to expect. Would she have dark hair, like me? Would she have our mother's mouth, or her father's eyes?"

Sydney did not look at Sloane as she delivered Nadia's eulogy. He was the reason she was dead. He didn't deserve to be here, he put the nail in Nadia's coffin. He should be the one being buried in the cold ground. But she knew Nadia would have wanted peace between them. Sydney would abide by her sisters wishes. At least, for today.

"What I found was an incredible woman. Nadia was everything I could have hoped for in a sister, and in a friend. She was incredibly kind-hearted and intensely loyal. For someone who had gone her entire life without her real mother, Nadia embodied all the qualities that would have made her an amazing mother."

Sydney stopped, unable to stop the sob that escaped her lips. She glanced down at Weiss in the first pew. Silent tears streamed down his face as he stared at Nadia's casket. Marshall, with a grief-stricken Weiss on his one side and a saddened Carrie on his other, slung a well-intended arm over Weiss's shoulder. He offered Sydney a sad half smile and she snapped out of her reverie and continued.

"In our line of work, the stress and heartache of the job can get to you. Despite knowing how cruel life can be, despite how many person hardships she had suffered, Nadia persevered. She was a ray of light in an otherwise darkened place and I treasure every minute I had with her. Anyone who knew Nadia can attest to the positive influence she had on others. She had a wicked sense of humor but never used it to hurt others. He laugh was infectious and her smile was nothing less than beautiful.

"I won't stand here in front of you, Nadia's friends and loved ones, and say that she was perfect. Nadia had her flaws. However, instead of hiding those flaws, Nadia embraced them, kept them close to her heart, and never let herself forget them. She didn't run from her past, she accepted her mistakes and that made her an incredibly strong person.

"Even after she got sick, you knew she was fighting every step of the way. There were times at the hospital where I thought I'd see the flutter of an eyelid, or a movement in her hand, and I knew Nadia was still there, just beneath the surface, waiting to wake up. Unfortunately, even the strongest of us have a breaking point. If I am certain of anything, Nadia wouldn't have wanted us sitting around, crying at her funeral. She would have wanted us to rejoice and live life at its fullest, and to remember how just knowing her had made our lives that much better. I love you, Nadia."

Sydney stepped down from the podium. She stopped at the coffin and put her hand on Nadia's. She felt cold, waxy. She didn't even look like her sister anymore. There was no trace of Nadia left, not in this shell of a body, and not in spirit. Sydney looked up, hoping that somewhere, Nadia could hear her.

"I'm sorry," Sydney whispered, letting her hand trace across the cool wood of the casket. "I'm so, so sorry."

She didn't wipe the tears away as she took her place between Dixon and Weiss. Sloane stared at her with misty eyes from the pew adjacent to hers. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sydney lifted her hand in a subtle, unmistakable gesture for his silence. He demurred, but nodded proudly at her.

She could reach across the aisle and kill him right now. Every molecule in Sydney's body screamed for Sloane's death. Her mind and body ached to take his life. With Nadia's death, everything had changed. There was nothing redeeming about Sloane now. Now was the time for action. Now was the time for vengeance.

A slight movement caught Sydney's eye as the priest began reading a passage. At first, she thought it was her eyes playing tricks on her; perhaps it was a tear reflecting light off the stained glass windows. But then, it happened again, a small, but very deliberate movement at the back of the church.

Turning around, Sydney saw it was Cesar Martinez. Nadia's Cesar, a criminal, and a terrorist. Sydney almost forgot about those things as she looked at the anguished heartbreak written plainly across his face. He beckoned to her, and then stepped outside the church.

Sydney looked around; certain someone else had seen him. But no one looked angry or alarmed; only sad, solemn faces surrounded her. Excusing herself, Sydney stood and walked out of the church and into the hot, Argentinean sun, where Cesar Martinez waited for her.

His face was ashen and he had bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in days. For someone so ruthless, it appeared as if he was struggling to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks.

"What are you doing here, Cesar," Sydney asked coldly. She folded her arms protectively over her chest. "There are at least 40 Argentinean intelligence agents in there and half as many C.I.A. that wouldn't hesitate to shoot you on the spot."

"I had to see her," Cesar said in a choked voice. "I couldn't go to the hospital when she was still…here, and now, I can't even go in, I can't even hold her hand one last time…" Saying her name seemed to break him, and the tears he had been holding at bay spilled down his face. He quickly wiped them away, but the flow did not subside.

"I can't explain to you what I had with Nadia, I wouldn't expect you to understand, or sympathize what I'm going through right now. Despite going our separate ways, despite the darker parts of our shared past, there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for her. I would go to the ends of the earth just to see her smile."

There was only truth in his words, and hearing them only made Sydney's heart lurch painfully.

"That doesn't explain why you're here," Sydney continued stubbornly. "It's not as if you can go in there an pay your respects, you'd he in handcuffs before you even reached the coffin."

"She knows I'm here," Cesar replied wistfully. His expression suddenly darkened.

"What I don't know is why Nadia's murdered is still alive. Not only is he still alive, he sits there, as if he really cares she is dead. Arvin Sloane took away the only person I ever loved…the only person who ever loved me. I'm here today, Sydney Bristow, as a courtesy to you. I am going to kill Arvin Sloane. I just thought you should know."

Sydney let silence settle between them as the idea soaked into her consciousness. Sloane deserved to die many times over for what he did to Nadia, what he did to all those people in Sevogda, what he did to the families of the countless people the had murdered or had murdered, what he had done to her.

The solution to years of hate and repulsion stood right in front of Sydney and yet, should couldn't stand idly by and simply wait for this stranger to kill the man who had ruined her life.

"I want to be there," Sydney said softly. "I want to watch him die."

Cesar stared at her for a moment and then, amazingly, nodded.

"I thought maybe you would," he answered after a moment. "It can't be done right away, he has too much security. I'll need to stake him out for a week, maybe more. There is no room for mistakes for this bastard."

Sydney nodded. "Understood. You will alert me when its time?" It wasn't a question.

"Of course,' Cesar said. "If anyone deserves to be there when I murder Arvin Sloane, it should be you."

Sydney glanced down at her watch. She'd already been gone long enough for someone to start wondering where she had gone.

"You should go," Sydney said nervously. "If I'm not back soon, someone will go looking for me. I don't need to tell you that I can't be seen talking to a known terrorist."

Inwardly, Sydney cringed. If people only knew the other criminal she had been fraternizing with recently. Sydney tried to force the thought of Sark out of her mind but she couldn't shake his image from her head. Suddenly she was inundated with memories of him; his hands, his mouth, and his eyes. Not knowing where this flood of feeling came from, Sydney felt the sting of tears welling up in her eyes again. She had lost Nadia, lost her parents, and somehow, there was this great hole in her that Sark had filled. Sydney suddenly ached at the loss of him. She needed to leave.

"I'll be seeing you," Cesar said purposely. He lifted a hand in farewell.

Their eyes met. A look of understanding and sorrow passed between them and Sydney knew she could trust him. Turning her back on him, she walked quickly back to the church. An idea was forming in her mind, something that could make everything right, or make everything go to shit. As soon as she thought it she felt a calm envelop her. It was a bad decision, more reckless than murdering Arvin Sloane, but it was right, and Sydney could feel it.

Feeling more composed, Sydney walked down the aisle and slid into her pew. No one questioned her whereabouts. Sydney squeezed Weiss's hand reassuringly, wanting to tell him what had transpired outside. But she didn't. He'd know after Arvin Sloane was dead. He wouldn't know for a fact she had had a hand in it, but he might suspect. Dixon, she felt, would know. This was something she needed to do and the world, and especially her friends, would live happier lives with Sloane dead.

The other decision she had made, the one that had come to her walking back from her rendezvous with Cesar, no one would ever know. There was another murder she would have to commit before she could rest, before she could feel whole again. Sydney knew what she'd have to sacrifice to see it through; the potential side effects could be more devastating than if she hadn't gone through with this decision at all. And now, only now, did she have the strength to do it.

Sydney sat through the rest of the funeral, not hearing or caring what the priest said. She was stone, she was ice; nothing could touch her now. She watched with dry eyes as Weiss, Dixon, Marshall, and three Argentinean agents carry her sister's coffin out of the church and into the hearse for Nadia's last journey.

Sydney held Weiss's hand as they lowered Nadia into the ground. She offered him kind words that she didn't actually believe when he sobbed, "I wasn't there, I should have been there, I wasn't there," over and over again.

Only when it was over, when dirt was being thrown over Nadia's coffin, did Sydney leave her friends behind. She walked away from her old life, and toward something she could never walk away from. She knew there was no coming back from murder, so she walked steadily, purposely, toward her absolute undoing, her ultimate salvation.

Sark had made it back to his Grecian villa by early afternoon, after setting his car on fire and then catching a ride with a local in a pickup truck. Sark road two hours in the bed of the truck with the blistering hot sun beating down on him in addition to a friendly, but decidedly smelly canine trying to get Sark to pet him. Sark did not oblige.

He was exhausted by the time he had arrived. There was nothing he'd rather do than pass out. But he didn't. Taking all the strength he had left, which was minimal, he stripped off his clothes and got into the shower. He turned the hot water on as high as his skin could stand without blistering. He longed to wash away the past two day, the past few weeks.

Well, perhaps, not the entirety of the past few weeks. In the chaos of Dr. Carlile's murder, Sark had forgotten about Sydney. Why now, after everything, did her lack of presence hit him so profoundly? He remembered how she had cared for him after his last episode. Had he ever had anyone care for him so attentively? No, Sark was absolutely sure of that.

For someone who had always been a lone wolf, someone who never depended on anyone, Sark felt the strange and unpleasant sensation of loneliness. She was bossy, surly, and used to getting her own way; characteristics that should, in all regards, turn him off. Was it those very things that he missed the most? Or was it her sweet-smelling hair, her flat abdomen, and amazing lips that caused this temporary lapse in his character? It was everything; every stupid, inane thing about Sydney Bristow made him regret leaving her.

Angrily, he punched the tiled wall of the shower, causing the ceramic to spiderweb and crack. Just as quickly as the absurdity of loneliness crossed his mind and turned to anger he composed himself, shoving the weak emotion from his mind. He attributed his uncharacteristic flaw to sheer exhaustion.

Taking time only to dry off, Sark trudged naked to his bedroom, only to find the last thing he wanted to see waiting for him on his bed. The red envelope lay in bright contrast to the white sheets of his bed. He couldn't deal with that right now, he wouldn't. He swept The Messenger's latest correspondence onto the floor and lay on the bed. He fell asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

Sark woke up suddenly, his heart racing. It was dark outside and his bedside clock read 1:30 a.m. He heard the drumming of rain beating on his roof and windows. Then, there, beyond the rain, was a loud, insistent buzzing.

Sark reached into a drawer for a pair of loose fitting, black, drawstring pants and slipped them on. He reached into his bedside end table and pulled out his Walther PPK and tread softly to his study, where the noise was echoing loudly.

A warning issued from his security system. Sark double and triple checked the results. There was no denying it: someone was outside his house. They had breached the gate cleanly. They had only been caught by the infrared camera near the front door. Only someone with a sophisticated understanding of security could have possibly broken the outside perimeter. Someone very dangerous was outside his house and as much as Sark did not want to kill two people in the span of two days, it didn't look as if this intruder was giving him much choice.

Keeping close to the walls, Sark walked slowly to the front door as the rain drummed a steady beat off the roof. He opened the door quickly, pointing his weapon into the night. It was incredibly dark; Sark could hardly see his hands holding the firearm, let alone an assailant. And then, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, did a body materialize.

There, beyond the patio, on the front steps, sat a solitary hooded figure, obscured by the night.

"Put your hands in the air and turn around, of I will shoot."

The figure did not move. It sat, the rain pelting down on its head, soaking into its dark clothes.

"I will not hesitate to kill you. Either you put your hands in the air and turn around or I pull the trigger. Make no mistake, I am _quite_ serious."

Slowly, the shadowy figure put its hands in the air and stood.

"Turn around," Sark commanded, and the figure flinched. "Turn around!"

Stepping forward, Sark put the barrel of the gun against the back of the intruder's hood head. Slowly, as if in pain, the intruder turned.

"Hi," Sydney said softly. The rain masked the tears that cascaded down her cheeks. She pulled the hood from her face, her dark hair looking as black as the night surrounding it.

"Hi," Sark whispered, lowering his gun. And for a few moments, neither spoke. Had it only been a month since he'd last seen her face? The reasons he had left seemed feeble now as she stood in front of him, her face so weathered and so beautiful.

There was nothing either of them could say; their eyes met and words became unnecessary. Underneath the pounding rain they stood, until Sark turned and opened the door. He held it open for her, half expecting her to turn and run.

But she didn't. After a moment's hesitation, she swept by him into the house. She passed by him and he could smell the scent of her hair that had haunted him since he'd left. Wordlessly, he followed her into the house and shut the door behind them. He led her to the living room and gestured to the couch. She didn't look at him; she needed to look anywhere but at him. Sydney hesitated, as if sitting would somehow make this whole thing real. She looked around, afraid he would see the look on her face, the shame and grief, because it was too much too keep locked up any longer.

Sark laid his hands lightly onto Sydney's shoulders and gently pushed down, making her sit down on the couch. She sat, the tears falling silently down her cheeks, staring across the room. As if not on his own accord, Sark sat down next to her. They sat, not speaking, their shoulders barely an inch apart. He didn't put his arm around her. She didn't lean her heard against his shoulder. They didn't exchange words of comfort.

Simply sitting, side be side…it was enough.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend, Chapter 8, Part 2

1. Iron and Wine, "He Lays In The Reins". **Listen to when: **Sydney dreams.

Lyrics:

_One more drink tonight as your gray stallion rests  
Where he lays in the reins  
For all of the speed and the strength he gave_

One more kiss tonight from some tall stable girl  
She's like grace from the earth  
When you're all tuckered out and tame

2. Stabilo, "Flawed Design". **Listen to when:** Sydney is being tortured.

Lyrics: _When I was a young boy  
I was honest and I had more self-control  
If I was tempted I would run  
Then, when I got older  
I began to lie to get exactly what I wanted  
When I wanted it  
And I wanted it  
Now, I'm having trouble differentiating  
Between what I want  
And what I need  
To make me happy  
So instead of thinking I just act  
Before I have a chance to contemplate the  
Consequence of action_

3. Tom McRae, "Got Suitcase, Got Regrets". **Listen to when:** Sark watches the security feed and listens to Dr. Carlile's last words.

Lyrics:

_So wake up pretty girl  
See the hope in small things  
Disappointment can wear you thin_

_But all I know is  
I'm not ready yet  
For the light to dim  
Got a suitcase, got regrets  
But I'm hopeful yet  
And I'll raise this glass of wine  
And I'll say your name_

4. Rosie Thomas, "Farewell". **Listen to when:** Dixon visits Sydney and lets her know of some sad news.

Lyrics:

_I never asked you for  
A sailboat in the yard  
Or that fancy dress to wear  
Or a ceiling made of stars  
And all I got was just this  
Broken heart from you_

5. Elbow, "Leaders of the Free World". **Listen to you:** Sark cleans up, goes shopping, and says goodbye to the good doctor.

Lyrics: _I'm sick of working for a living  
I'm just ticking off the days till I die  
Oh, I miss you __Sydney_

6. Joshua Radin, "Winter". **Listen to when:** Sydney is at Nadia's funeral.

Lyrics:

_And I remember the sound  
Of your November downtown  
And I remember the truth  
A warm December with you_

_But I don't have to make this mistake  
And I don't have to stay this way  
If only I would wake_

7. Fleetwood Mac, "Beautiful Child". **Listen to when:** Sydney talks to Cesar.

Lyrics:

_You fell in love when I was only ten  
The years disappeared  
Much has gone by since then  
I bite my lip, can you send me away  
You touch  
I have no choice  
I have to stay  
I had to stay_

8. Matt Nathanson, "Maid". **Listen to when:** Sydney and Sark reunite.

Lyrics:

_Hello, my **foul weather friend**_

_My ears are always open to your laments  
and my will is always weak for your advances,  
and I'll play the maid and clean up the mess._

_Your face, I look at your face and it's changed since we last spoke  
it s weathered and beautiful,  
so weathered and so beautiful  
please have a seat, I was going anywhere  
but that can wait  
because I'd rather have you here while I can  
then I'll pack it all up and take you with me again._

_My ears are always open to your laments  
and my will is always weak for your advances,  
and I'll play the maid and clean up the mess._


	13. Chapter 9, Part 1

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend

**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)

**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations

**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.

**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.

**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same strong summer.

Summary: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.

**Author's Note:** Part 1 of 3 parts of Chapter 9! I told you it would be a long one, and for good reason. The next chapter might take a bit longer to churn out, so I need to apologize ahead of time for the expected delay. As for the chapter, Sark and Sydney are reunited and it feels so good! Sark and Sydney fill each other in on their vacations away from one another, visit an old friend of Sark's, and find themselves posing under some rocking aliases! You'll find the awesome soundtrack for this chapter in the part 3 section of the chapter and as always, enjoy "Foul-Weather Friend"!

* * *

Sark was the first one to break the silence.

"I killed Dr. Carlile," he spoke at last, not looking at Sydney sitting inches away from him on the couch. She didn't look surprised. She hardly registered Sark's comment before she opened her mouth to speak.

"My sister is dead and I think I am going to kill Arvin Sloane," Sydney said softly, almost if Sark wasn't there at all and she was simply thinking aloud. Sark was left momentarily speechless.

"I'm sorry," Sark said sincerely after a moment's hesitation. He pressed on. "…about Nadia. Not about Sloane. That man deserved to die a long time ago. Many lives could have been saved if someone had put a bullet in his head."

Sark continued, feeling awkward, as if the words he were about to say didn't completely belong to him.

"Did she go peacefully?"

Sydney's head jerked toward him, her eyes ablaze. Sark's oddly sympathetic words had lit a fire in her brain, burning her out of her numb reverie.

"Did she go peacefully? Did she go _peacefully_? She had a heart attack; does that sound peaceful to you?" She was breathing heavy now, unable to keep the venom out of her voice.

"It could have been," Sark replied, his tone factual and even. "If she was in a coma and her heart simply stopped beating." He'd let her take her anger out on him. She needed him for that. If it helped, if he had been of some comfort, he'd be helping her get back into the right frame of mind to keep fighting. Really, he was helping himself by listening. Sark truly thought that was his only motivation.

Sydney didn't answer. Sark thought for a horrific moment that she was going to start crying again. She had done so for a solid eleven minutes and he had had no idea how to make it stop or how to handle it. He had sat stoically beside her and patiently waited for the tears to subside. Sydney had been grateful he hadn't tried to console her. Thankfully she had put a stop to the weeping on her own.

"I don't know if she went peacefully," Sydney finally answered. "I was busy going on a wild goose for this," Sydney picked up a cylindrical tube Sark hadn't seen her bring in from beside the couch and placed it on her lap. "…to visit my comatose sister. All I know is that when she passed…she was alone."

Sydney paused, something Sark had said earlier finally hit home.

"You murdered Dr. Carlile? Why?"

Sark sighed and pressed his lips tightly together. Sydney thought he looked reproachful, resigned and, unless she imagined it, nervous.

"It's better to show you and then explain," he said, standing up from his place beside her.

"Show me?" Sydney asked uneasily. "I don't think I need to see –"

"Trust me," Sark interrupted, holding his hand out to help her up. She made a face at the gesture and ignored his hand as she stood. Despite knowing how she might react to what he was about to show her, Sark's lips curved in a secret smile as he turned and led the way to the study.

Despite the embarrassing weeping episode earlier, Sydney seemed determined, defensive, and totally uninterested in him. She was Sydney again. That heartened Sark, though it made him realize that her reaction the origins and aftermath of his episodic blackouts would be, in all likelihood, unpleasant for him.

Sydney pulled the chair in front of the security monitors toward her and sat down. Sark fiddled with the feed until the now familiar scene featuring him and Dr. Carlile chatting filled the screen.

"What was she even doing –"

"I'll explain everything after you've watched the tape and listened to the voice recording," Sark interrupted, directing her attention to the screen.

"Voice recording? There's a voice –"

"Sydney, please," Sark said a bit forcefully, swiveling the chair she sat in back in the direction of the screen. "All will be explained, as best as I can. Just watch."

Sark watched Sydney watch the footage. She did not speak, though he was sure she was silently horrified at the events unfolding in front of her. She didn't flinch as the video Sark slit Dr. Carlile's throat, though her eyes did go a bit wider than usual. She watched as the Sark in the video finally convulsed, holding his head, and collapsed in a pool of blood that wasn't his. Sark turned the video off.

Sydney looked expectantly at him. Still not speaking, Sark reached across her for Dr. Carlile's tape recorder. Sydney jerked backward, almost afraid that the shirtless Sark would make contact with her the little bit of skin she has exposed. Sark's lips tightened, but simply continued his course. He presses play and Sydney listens to the Doctor's last moments.

Only when the tape stops does Sark finally explain. He speaks of the temporary amnesia, and the headaches, all things Sydney already knows and surprises herself to find she empathizes with. She heard what Dr. Carlile said about an implant, and Sark shares the temporary thoughts of suicide that had clouded his mind. Sydney marveled that he considered making the ultimate sacrifice, not only for the selfish reasons but for the unselfish ones, too. He talks about it so clinically, so matter-of-factly, as if he were talking about a science experiment instead of taking his own life.

And then the explanation is over. Sark waits for her to be horrified, or angry. He is surprised when she is neither.

"So this," Sydney said at last, cautious. "…is what happens during your headaches when I'm not here to stop you."

She thought of the last episode he'd had. She had left him alone for two minutes and had already been out the door before she caught him. He had been so confused and vulnerable; nothing like the Sark she knew. He had been more scared of him at that moment than of all the times they had come to blows.

"I'm not sure," Sark replied slowly. "This could have been the first time it has gotten this far."

"Or it might not be," Sydney supplied unnecessarily. She continued, not bothering to sugarcoat what she was about to say.

"Are you being absolutely honest with me, Sark? You're telling me there wasn't a part of you that wanted her dead?"

Sark didn't want to lie; he felt she would probably know if he did anyway.

"I had considered it," Sark admitted. "She had come to my home; she could have, and probably has already, put me in jeopardy. Worse, she has probably put you in jeopardy as well. Not to mention she could have brought Prophet 5, or whoever was after her, right to my doorstep. She could have had me, or you, killed. So yes, I had thought about killing her myself. But Sydney," his voice urged, so close to pleading that it made Sydney pause, "You have to believe me when I say I did not consciously kill Dr. Carlile."

Sydney closed her eyes, taking in all the information that had been presented. Sark had never lied to her; she had admitted that to herself many times. Why would he start now? But how was it possible that a man who killed frequently and without remorse, would be lying about this one kill? He wouldn't. Sydney knew this and found that to be more frightening than if he had consciously killed her in cold blood.

"You realize then," Sydney said after a moment's silence. "That if you had no idea this was happening –"

"You know I didn't," Sark interrupted.

"Than you are putting me at a very great risk by being in your presence."

Sark nodded and turned his gaze away from her, his eyes settling somewhere on a far wall.

"I realize you've been through a great deal and I can appreciate that," Sark said bracingly. "And, to be honest, I've grown quite accustomed, even fond, of your absolute loathing of me. But Sydney, I didn't ask you to come here. It would probably be best if you stay somewhere else. I'm not saying we can't continue working together. A long distance relationship might be just what we need. I think I'd quite like to rendezvous with you via telephone."

He ended with a smirk, and Sydney could tell he was trying to hide something behind his words.

"Sark," Sydney said, exasperated. "How many times do we have to go over this? You've never been a danger to me, not now, not ever. You can't beat me, on your own or when or if you're being controlled by someone else. I might actually be the best thing for you, if this implant theory is true. The headaches last long enough for me to restrain you. You can't beat me. It's simple, undeniable fact."

Sark smiled. A wide, genuine smile that showed his perfect white teeth. It was disarming, that smile; mostly because the occasions for seeing it was so few and far between but also, Sydney quietly thought, it made him look like any normal, attractive man.

"Touché," he replied indulgently. He paused, and then reached for his pocket.

"Before you retire for the night, this came not long before your arrival," Sark said, pulling the red envelope out of his pants pocket. "I haven't had a chance to look at it yet."

In that moment, Sydney changed. Her eyes darkened and she turned her head away from Sark, angry. She stood up quickly from the desk chair and snatched the envelope from Sark's hand. He didn't remark at her impetuous hands. She seemed in her own, private world of hurt.

She tore open the envelope unceremoniously and read it quickly. In a fit of what Sark saw as childish anger, Sydney crumpled the letter up and threw it across the room.

"That wasn't an overreaction at all," Sark remarked sarcastically. Sydney was in no mood to joke.

"I won't do it anymore," Sydney said heatedly. "I won't be this psycho's puppet. We've done everything he's asked, at our own peril. We've seen _nothing_ to suggest we'll se my parents again. You were right before, when you questioned whether they were even alive at all and I just wasn't ready to accept that."

She was pacing back and forth in front of Sark, though he doubted she really saw him there at all.

"We have been going about this far too passively. I think its time we did something drastic."

She turned to him, talking at him rather than talking to him.

"I want to find The Messenger. I want to find him and I want to torture him until he tells us where my parents are. And if they're dead, I want to kill him."

There. She had said it. She had never thought that murder would solve her problems; murder only created heartbreak and more complications. But now? Sydney stood in front of her former enemy as a broken woman. She needed to kill those who hurt her; she craved it. Taking the lives of Arvin Sloane and The Messenger did not scare her. It made her feel vigilant, whole, and triumphant.

Sydney looked at Sark expectantly, waiting for him to agree with her. Sark's eyes went wide in disbelief and he appraised her warily, almost reproachfully.

"This is most unlike you," Sark stated cagily.

"I haven't been myself for a long time now," Sydney said spitefully. "I don't think I can be faulted for that, especially by you. How dare you assume you know who I really am?"

"You don't think I know who you truly are," Sark started. "That someone like me could never really see you, but you're wrong about that and you're wrong about killing The Messenger." Sark moved closer to Sydney and she didn't back down. She wouldn't let him intimidate her.

"You are a compassionate, thoughtful, moral person. Not usually to me, but to most. You might not feel that way right now, but if you act rashly about this, it could turn this tenuous situation we are in very ugly very fast. I can't stop you from killing Arvin Sloane. That is your own vendetta. But tracking down The Messenger just to kill him when he doesn't tell you want to hear? That is just plain irresponsible and bloodthirsty and I will not go along with it."

Sydney gaped at him, incredulous. She shook her head disbelievingly, unable to comprehend that Julian Sark, a killer and a terrorist, was lecturing her about morality.

"How _dare _you say such a thing to me," she seethed.

"I agree with you up to a point," Sark said leniently. "I do feel that we've been more than accommodating and patient in carrying out our end of the bargain with The Messenger. We have seen nothing in return for everything we've done for him. I do feel we should take some kind of action to illicit the kind of result we are looking for."

He continued, ignoring Sydney's obvious anger toward him.

"I'm assuming The Messenger has asked us to procure another object for him in his newest letter. We already have something else he wants, that painting you brought with you. How do you feel about being withholding? We go and get whatever he wants and we keep that and the painting hostage until we see some results."

"I don't see how that is any less dangerous to what I've suggested," Sydney said stubbornly. "Why not just kill us for insubordination?"

"Because these things he's been asking us to get are obviously things he can't get on his own," Sark said logically. "If we hide these objects, he'll never get them and he'll know not to string us along any longer. You won't have to kill to get the result you're looking for."

Sydney stood silently, contemplating Sark's idea. Her rashness regarding the Messenger seemed irresponsible and childish now. Still, she couldn't help but wonder when Sark had crossed from being a completely loathsome, evil being to something far more complicated.

"Since when have you been so concerned for your code of morality?" Sydney questioned, her tone lightening at Sark's civilized suggestion.

"It's not my morality I'm concerned about," Sark said simply, and it was all Sydney could do not to let her mouth hang open in surprise. He said these words so effortlessly, as if he actually thought about her needs before his own. As if he truly felt she was more worth saving than him. It was a small admittance, but Sydney surprised herself when she took it to heart.

"If we're going to do this properly," Sydney said after a moment's hesitation, walking back to the living room. "We need to have a forgery made of this painting and give it to The Messenger. We need the fake to be good enough that he doesn't notice it's not the one he wants until we get the diamond."

"The diamond?" Sark asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Oh," Sydney uttered, remembering she hadn't shown Sark The Messenger's latest request. "Seems our friend's tastes have gotten a bit more extravagant this time around. He 'needs' a diamond called 'The Heart of Darkness'. It's apparently a very famous gem. How he expects _us_ to get it beats the hell out of me."

"Heart of Darkness, you say?" Sark asked knowingly, to which Sydney very quickly narrowed her eyes at his unexpected tone of voice.

"You know where it is?" Sydney asked skeptically. "I always thought your taste was more by the way of corporate mergers and hostile takeovers than fancy trinkets."

"Don't you worry about what my taste is," Sark replied with a smirk on his face. "Just try not to be too impressed with me when you have the Heart of Darkness hanging around your slender neck."

"Oh, I don't think we ever have to worry about me being impressed with you," Sydney answered deprecatingly. "Now, about the painting. We need the forgery to be good, but the thing is, I think he's looking for something _inside_ the painting, so even if the fake is amazing, he's going to know we've deceived him when he can't find the formula."

"The formula?" Sark asked quizzically, taking the sheathed painting from Sydney and unfurling its contents. He looked at the painting, his gaze drifting not to the man Sydney thought to be Rambaldi, but to the man on the left of the painting in a long black robe, with matching dark curtains of hair and beard. Sark quickly rolled the painting back into its tube and sat down on the couch, looking at Sydney expectantly.

Sydney nodded and began explaining the mission she had gone on in Las Vegas. She told him about Faust, how she turned the tables on him, and his admission about the formula and its amazing healing powers.

"And you're sure he was telling the truth?" Sark asked skeptically.

Sydney rolled her eyes. "I stabbed him in the neck with a syringe of truth serum, Sark. It's not a hard concept to understand."

Sark shrugged and Sydney continued.

"This man, Faust, would have done anything for this painting. He was fully convinced that the formula encoded within it would bring his dying son back to life. Do you know what I could have done with that formula?"

Sydney stood up quickly from the couch and looked directly into Sark's eyes. Her gaze was unwavering and disconcerting. Sark fought not to look away.

"I could have saved Nadia. My sister is dead because I was sloppy. You of all people should know how I feel."

Sark knew she was talking about Alison. He was thankful she didn't say her name. He didn't like anyone saying her name like they truly knew who she was. They knew the shell of Alison, what she had become. He had _known_ the true Alison, and was the only person who felt the deep chasm of pain when she was taken from this world.

He broke her stare. Looking away, he spoke as plainly as he could without hitting too close to what he was feeling.

"If you get into that kind of thinking, constantly questioning 'what if'…you'll drive yourself insane," Sark quietly rationalized. "The thing is, if your mission hadn't gone wrong, you never would have known about the formula. And you'd be there, and I'd be here, no better than we were before. I know it hurts to hear it, but Nadia would have died either way. But now…"

Sark stood and faced her.

"Now we have a real plan. We are closer to finding your parents than we ever were. And that's something."

Sydney wondered if he had always been this way. This side of Sark, the quietly hopeful, self- reproachful person she had come to know, she questioned if it had always been there, just beneath the surface, or if it had been her that made him that way. Nevertheless, he was surprising her everyday with himself, and Sydney did not like surprises. Especially concerning Julian Sark.

"Maybe you should get cleaned up," Sark said, breaking the moment and picking up the painting once again. "I'm going to put this in the safe, but, if you're up to it, we can leave the day after tomorrow and get this replicated."

"You know someone?" Sydney asked, thinking she shouldn't be surprised at all Sark's connections at this point in time.

"I always know someone," Sark said confidently. "He's an old acquaintance from University that owes me a favor."

"From University?" Sydney asked, clearly surprised. "You didn't go to college, did you? I've never read anything about that in your history."

"Sydney," Sark answered, enjoying her confusion more than he probably should. "When will you realize that you don't know everything about me and that I am, in all actuality, a very complex and interesting person?"

"I suppose I'll never learn," Sydney answered humorlessly, and began walking to the door. "I'll get my things from the car and soon we'll leave to see this old acquaintance of yours." She was already across the room before Sark called out to her despite himself.

"Sydney."

Sydney groaned and turned resignedly in the doorway of the room.

"Did you miss me?"

She couldn't tell if he was being serious or having a private laugh at her expense. Still, he gazed at her expectantly, as if he deserved an answer to his absurd question.

"I think you know better than to ask me that," Sydney replied before spinning on her heal and out of the room.

"Apparently I don't," Sark said to no one. He smiled to himself and trudged off to bed.


	14. Chapter 9, Part 2

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend

**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)

**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations

**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.

**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.

**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same strong summer.

Summary: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.

**Author's Note:** Part 2 of 3 in Chapter 9! Lots of banter! Sexual undertones! The English countryside! Incredibly fascinating stuff!

* * *

Sydney hadn't had a home since she and Nadia had lived down the street from Weiss. After Nadia had gotten sick, and especially after Vaughn's betrayal, she simply lived in a house but it didn't feel like home any longer. Moving out had been a relief, but the house in Arizona hadn't been a home.

During different periods in her life, there had always been a place Sydney had imagined that she could one day call home. When she was a child, it was in a home filled with the smell of cookies wafting through the kitchen and the sound of twinkling piano keys; a home where Laura Bristow was alive and Jack Bristow always came straight home from work. Sydney held on to this notion of home for quite some time. She sometimes thinks she never actually let it go.

After that is was a house with a white picket fence, somewhere in the suburbs, where she and Danny chased their three kids around the yard, where they kissed their scraped knees when they fell. Sydney admitted to herself later that it was never a true fantasy. She was still so excited about the agency then, and deep down she knew that she wouldn't give Danny the children he so desperately wanted.

She called the apartment she lived in with Francie home. And it was, especially when Will was there. But she was in too deep then. The house was so filled with secrets Sydney sometimes wondered how they all could fit inside its walls with the truth always threatening to spill out through all the cracks. She lost most everything in the fire that consumed the house, but in the end it was more cathartic than tragic. She felt every lie she had ever told to the two of them burn in the flames and Sydney was eventually relieved at its destruction.

The home she imagined with Vaughn was the probably hardest to give up. In the middle of nowhere, on a tropical island lined with white sand, there were no guns, no peeking around every corner, no prophecies or blood spattered bathroom walls. It was pregnant Sydney walking hand in hand with Vaughn in the crystal clear surf. It was two children who never had to bear the burden of the wars their parents fought. Sydney couldn't help but make it perfect in her mind, and yet, as improbable as her fantasy had been, it had been the closest to home she had felt in her entire life.

And now? Among the confusion with her parents and Sark, Sydney stilled dreamed of a place to call home. As she stood beside Sark on an English country lane, with the first leaves of autumn falling gently on their shoulders, Sydney could see a home in this. They walked toward a picturesque stone cottage with smoke unfurling from a brick chimney into a pale gray sky. She could see herself in a place like this, far away tight, revealing dresses and day-glo wigs. She'd be alone, but safe and content in the cool, English countryside. Sydney's heart longed for it.

But it was not today. They had parked the car at the end of a long lane and walked with their hands in their pockets up to the quaint cottage.

"So you met this guy in college?" Sydney asked casually, trying not to betray her innate curiosity in the shady personal history of Julian Sark.

"Yes," Sark answered, brushing away a stray leaf that had fallen onto the shoulder of his navy peacoat. "He was my roommate, actually."

"Your roommate?" Sydney asked incredulously. She couldn't didn't bother hiding the surprise in her voice.

"Yes, my roommate," Sark replied matter-of-factly. "But before you start getting romantic notions of my stay there, I was on a job. My first job, actually. I was posing as an engineering student at Cambridge, as to get access to a deep-sea drill your Mother wanted for some Rambaldi nonsense. I was supposed to get a single room, but there was a mix-up in the paperwork, and I found myself living with the man we're about to see. Art student, extremely gifted in recreating famous masterpieces."

Sydney shook her head, unable to get the image of an 18 year old Sark hauling a duffel bag very properly through a Cambridge dormitory.

"I find the idea of you at college a hard one to imagine," Sydney replied honestly, stuffing her cold hands in her pockets. It was nearing the end of September, and while it was still hot back in Arizona, the first biting chill of fall nipped at her exposed hands and face.

"It wasn't a comfortable fit," Sark admitted, stepping up onto the porch. "But I did manage to have a bit of fun while I was there."

"I'll bet you did," Sydney scoffed, and raised her hand to knock on the door. Sark stopped her before she could announce their presence.

"Listen, I don't want you to barge in here acting haughty, like this guy is simply another villain I fraternize with," Sark said in a warning tone. "He's a normal person, not in the business."

"Are we putting him in danger by asking him to duplicate the painting?" Sydney asked.

Sark shrugged. "I've taken precautions to avoid that. So let us keep this visit brief and worry about any problems when they arise. I think you'll end up liking him, actually."

Sydney cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows furrowed.

"And what makes you think that?"

"Because he's completely unlike me."

Sydney smirked. "I think I like him already."

Sark jerked his head toward the door. Sydney knocked and after a few seconds passed, it opened.

An incredibly attractive man stepped through the archway and grabbed Sark, pulling him into a hug. Sark noticeably stiffed, clearly surprised and not at all comfortable with this overt sign of affection.

"Charlie! Oh, I'm sorry; its Julian now, isn't it?" The man said warmly in an American accent. "Whatever your name is, it's been too long."

"Indeed it has," Sark said, trying to recover from his earlier awkwardness. He glanced at Sydney and hated how much she seemed to enjoy his apparent unease. "Logan Bell, I'd like you to meet my associate, Sydney Bristow."

"A pleasure to meet you," Logan said, proffering his hand. Sydney shook it and smiled, finding that his amicable mood was contagious.

"Please come in," Logan said, stepping aside so that they could enter. The interior of the house was warm and friendly, not unlike its resident, making Sydney wonder how two completely different men could ever strike an accord with one another.

"Would you like some tea?" Logan asked graciously. "I've just put the kettle on."

"None for me," Sark answered, shooting Sydney a subtle but unmistakable look that she should say the same.

"I'd love some, thank you," she answered, smiling.

"I'll be back in a minute. Please make yourselves at home," Logan said cordially, exiting the room.

Sark leaned against the fireplace and glanced over at Sydney on the couch, who had an expression much like the cat who ate the canary plastered across her face.

"What?" Sark asked defensively.

"You have a friend," Sydney replied coyly, clearly enjoying herself.

"That man is not my friend," Sark answered, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, you two are friends. You're like, best friends." She was downright devious, and Sark narrowed his eyes at her.

"You're ridiculous," he said dismissively.

"It's not something to be ashamed of," Sydney countered. "In fact, I'm pleasantly surprised. I didn't think you could have any friends. This is a big step up for you."

Sark put a hand to his temple and rubbed, as if that would drown out the sound of Sydney's sickeningly sweet voice.

"You are being insufferable, not to mention being woefully mistaken. He owes me a favor, a fairly large favor, and he's lucky I'm letting him do this for us."

"Uh huh," Sydney said, obviously not believing him.

"I really dislike you," Sark said seriously, as Logan stepped through the door. Sydney took the moment to compare the two men, as different as they were attractive. Where Sark was light, with his Nordic good looks, blond hair, and sky-colored eyes; Logan was dark, with flawless olive skin, close-cropped dark hair, and smoky green eyes. How the good-tempered, polite American became friends with a ruthless, insufferable Brit, Sydney did not know. She didn't have time to ruminate on the subject, as Logan was steering the conversation to business.

"I know you didn't come all this way for tea and reminiscing," Logan said, placing the tray on the coffee table. He sat beside Sydney on the couch. "Let's have a look at this painting."

Sydney nodded and picked up the protective cylindrical tube, pulling the painting out of its protective sheath. She handed it to Logan, who unrolled it carefully.

There were a few moments where no one spoke. Logan had a look of surprise and, strangely enough, something close to fear clouding his features. Sark finally broke the silence.

"What do you think, Bell? Can you make the forgery?"

Logan hesitated, clearly trying to make sense of something.

"Bell?" Sark pressed.

"This is…unbelievable," Logan sputtered. "Where did you get this?"

"It doesn't matter where we got it," Sydney said, stepping in. "What mattered is whether or not you are able to create a forgery."

Logan continued to stare at the painting, his eyes wide.

"Yes, he replied slowly. "I can duplicate it."

Sydney heard the hesitation in his voice.

"But…?" She asked, waiting for his explanation.

"But nothing," he said, still sounding surprised. "In fact, it'll be an easy forgery, seeing as there has never been a photograph or accurate description of this painting. The only people who have ever looked upon it have been its owners, and there have been very few of those."

Logan tore his gaze away from the painting to look from Sark to Sydney and back again.

"This painting is a myth, an urban legend, Logan said, slowly. "Its story is legendary amongst the art elite. There has never been any evidence that it even exists. Except for the fact that I'm holding it in my hands."

Sydney glanced over at Sark, who appeared to be just as confused as she was.

"Can you tell us about it," Sark urged Logan. "Who is the artist? Who are the people in the painting? Can you detect any encoded message in the paint?"

"I don't know about any message," Logan answered. "And I can't tell you the artist's name, because none has ever been given. To commit this idea, this subject matter into a piece of art, was blasphemous. And to find out who it was created for, well, no one would want to step up and admit their work."

"Who commissioned the painting?" Sydney asked. Logan looked as if he were bracing himself for the answer.

"Adolph Hitler." A shocked silence followed, and Logan pressed on.

"As you probably know, Hitler was obsessed with the occult. He spent millions of dollars researching various outlets for his obsession. This man here," Logan pointed to the main with a pointed beard.

"…is Erik Jan Hanussen, an occultist, psychic, and magician, closely associated with Hitler. It is said he taught Hitler secret crowd control techniques with the utilization of hand gestures. He supposedly predicted the Reichstag fire, the event that led to recently appointed Chancellor of Germany Hitler seizing absolute power in Germany. He made a second prediction about the eventual downfall of Hitler which Hitler took as a threat, which probably led to the Nazi's murdering Hanussen. But not before Hitler had this painting commissioned. It is rumored the painting hung in his sleeping quarters in the underground bunker he was holed up in until his downfall."

"You know a lot about this painting," Sydney said slowly. She felt Logan was genuinely a good person, but she knew what obsession could do to even the best of people.

"I did a thesis on it, actually," Logan said, offering a small smile to Sydney. "The painting is quite famous and has all sorts of intrigue about it but, to look at it in person, it's quite creepy."

Sydney nodded and saw Sark shift from one foot to the other out of the corner of her eye. He was getting restless.

"What about the other people in the painting?" Sark asked. "The three other men and the woman?"

"The woman is Mother Shipton, who went to predict such events the Great London Fire of 1666, the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588, and her own death. This man is Milo Rambaldi, who had an eerily accurate take on modern technology."

Sydney glanced at Sark, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "What did you expect".

"This man is supposed to be Nostradamus, whom I'm sure you know had many prophecies attributed to him. The last man is Rasputin, who predicted his own death and the fall of the Romanovs."

"The Romanovs," Sydney said quietly, her eyes shifting quickly to Sark's face. He knew it had been Rasputin in the painting, back at his house. She had wondered why it had been the man with the long beard, Rasputin, that had captured Sark's interest and not Rambaldi, with whom they had had repeated entanglements with.

"Together they make the Five Prophets," Logan said, rolling up the painting. "There are some rumors that they all made predictions that complimented one another, having to do with some great weapon, but there are so many hoaxes concerning oracles and prophets, who's to say what's real."

Logan slid the painting back into its tube. Sydney and Sark exchanged a significant look, but quickly looked away from one another when a rustling sound came from the kitchen. Sark made a protective motion to the gun in his pocket, but quickly retracted his hand when he saw what it was.

A little girl, around four years old, with wildly curly dark hair stood sleepily in the doorway, staring expectantly at the adults.

"I'm awake," she stated, looking keenly at Logan. He smiled and stood to envelop her in his arms. He turned to his guests.

"Madeline, these are my friends Sydney and Julian. Guys, this is my daughter Maddy. Maddy, please say hello to Sydney and Julian."

Sydney leaned forward in her seat, smiling broadly at the child.

"Hi Maddy," she said warmly. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Hi," Maddy replied. She turned her attention to Sark. Sark looked from the little girl and then back to Logan and furrowed his eyebrows.

"Go on, Maddy. Say hi to Julian," her father prodded.

The little girl and the blond man stood, staring at each other, neither yielding.

"He looks cranky. I don't like him," Maddy said, folding her arms. Sydney's laugh burst out of her mouth before she could suppress it. Sark shot her an annoyed look.

"She's very observant," Sydney said to Logan, who smiled.

"She's also very stubborn," Logan said warmly, ruffling his daughter's hair. "Tell you what. Sydney, why don't I show you my studio. Julian, could you watch Maddy for a few minutes?"

"Oh, I don't think –" Sark began, before Logan cut him off.

"Good, we'll be right back," Logan said as Sydney stood and walked over to him. She gave Sark a small wave before sweeping out of the room with Logan. Sark stood, motionless, except for a single eyebrow rising in annoyance. Children were small, sticky and annoying, not unlike pets, except that you are discouraged from chaining them up in the yard.

"Why are you cranky?" Maddy asked Sark, as she approached a train set and sat down to play with it. She zoomed the train caboose around the carpet, not looking at the stranger in her house. "Did you not have a nap today?"

"I'm not cranky," Sark said, not quite believing he was having this conversation.

"Do you want to play trains?" Maddy asked, holding up a train car and throwing it in Sark's general direction. "Beep beep," Maddy said seriously, crashing the train caboose into another train car.

"Absolutely not," Sark said, nudging the train car she had thrown at him away with his shoe.

"The train conductor made a mistake, so now all the trains are in a big smash-up," Maddy said, standing up. She padded over to where Sark was standing and grabbed his hand, pulling him down to the carpet with her with surprising force. Sark rolled his eyes, but sat, as to avoid any sort of tantrum.

"Play," Maddy demanded, shoving a train car into Sark's hand. Sark looked at it like it was some revolting entity.

"Where are these toys made?" Sark asked her. "I don't want to be infected by any sort of toxins. Getting anthrax would be very bad for me right now."

"They're from Santa's workshop," she answered, glaring at Sark now. "You're no fun. Daddy does the voices of the train passengers. Does Sydney do voices?"

"Sometimes," Sark admitted. "Her Russian accent is quite good, but her French leaves something to be desired."

"Boom!," Maddy replied, smashing the cars together again and letting them fall from her hands onto the carpet. "There was a crash but the policemen came and saved everyone in the train. They called 911. You can be the police. You have lights on your car."

"Lucky me," Sark said sarcastically, allowing the child to drive the small police vehicle over his very expensive Italian shoes.

In the other side of the house, Sydney laughed.

"I can't believe you left the two of them in their alone," Sydney said to Logan as she surveyed his art studio. The walls were lined with his work, all intricate and beautiful. Her eyes lingered on a portrait of a mother gently caressing her pregnant belly while she spoke. "I get the impression that Sark…I mean Julian, is not fond of children."

"Meh, it'll do the both of them some good," Logan answered, setting the painting under a lighted easel. "She's used to people fawning all over her and giving her exactly what she wants. She has me and my in-laws wrapped completely around her little finger. Her mother was more of the disciplinarian…"

Logan trailed off, busying himself with setting the painting up. Sydney heard a hitch in his voice, and she couldn't help but wonder where the mother was now.

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate you and Julian letting me do this for you," Logan said. "I've been wanting to repay him somehow, and at least with this I can do something useful."

"If you don't mind me asking," Sydney said, cautiously. "Is this really worth doing for you? Whatever he gave you, it can't be worth this."

"I'd do anything he asked," Logan said seriously, glancing down the hallway to where Sark sat with Maddy. "Julian helped me at a very dark time. This is the least I can do for him."

Sydney didn't answer, not wanting to intrude on whatever emotions he was obviously struggling with at the moment. After a few seconds of silence, Logan continued.

"My wife quit her teaching job after Maddy was born. I was doing well selling my paintings at the time, and we lived very comfortably. About a year and a half ago, Jean, my wife, was diagnosed with leukemia. My insurance didn't cover her medical expenses and we started paying out of pocket for everything and soon, there was nothing left. I had nowhere to go and soon I started asking friends and family for money. Some were very kind, but even the kindest people can't give the kind of money I needed. I hadn't seen Julian in years but I remembered he was well off. I called him up and within a few weeks he got back to me. He gave me 3 million dollars, Sydney. Who does that?"

"Someone who has that money to spare," Sydney replied honestly. "Someone who is looking for something in return."

"No," Logan said fiercely. "He never asked for anything. In the end, after Jean had passed, I tried to give the remainder of the money back and promised to pay back what I had used. He flat out refused, said he didn't want my money. I told him I'd do anything he wanted, all he had to do was ask. I hadn't heard from him since then, until yesterday."

"He didn't want anything in return?" Sydney asked, surprise evident in her voice. This didn't make any sense. Julian Sark did not give charity. He did not give money to dying mothers, especially not to get anything in return. But in the end, he was getting something in return, and Sydney felt he had fulfilled her expectation of him. That he was the consummate business man, biding his time until he could get what he wanted.

"No, he didn't. And I'm glad I could finally repay him," Logan said, smiling. Sydney looked around at the man's beautiful paintings, at his beautiful daughter, and was envious. She wanted this kind of life, with a man like Logan, with a daughter like Maddy. Suddenly it seemed like too much, and Sydney needed to get out of the house.

"We should probably get going," Sydney muttered, sweeping from the room. Logan nodded sympathetically, and they went to retrieve Sark.

"So, if the train conductor had a good business sense," Sark said to Maddy seriously, who was listening attentively to his words. "He would conduct a hostile takeover of the other train yards and create a monopoly, therefore increasing his prophet margin."

Maddy looked up at her father, who had just entered the room.

"Daddy, what's a hostile takeover?"

"Wow, I think we really need to go," Sydney said quickly, issuing Sark a dirty look. Sark shrugged and lifted himself off the floor.

"Bell, it was nice seeing you again," Sark said, shaking the man's hand.

"The pleasure was all mine," Logan said sincerely. "The painting won't take too long; I'll call you when it's ready." He turned to Sydney.

"Sydney, I hope we meet again."

Sydney smiled. "Me too." Impulsively, she hugged him.

"Try not to be so hard on him," Logan whispered in her ear. "You'll find he's not all bad."

Sydney was immediately taken back, but quickly put a half-hearted smile on her face. If this man thought he knew who Sark truly was, more so than she, he was mistaken. He might be complex, or complicated, but "not all bad" was a lofty adjective to live up to. But she didn't want to be rude, and simply nodded.

"It was very nice meeting you, Maddy," Sydney said, stooping down to the girl's level. The girl smiled and then looked immediately to Sark.

"Madeline," Sark said professionally. "You're not a completely annoying child. Keep that up."

"Okay," the girl said happily. "When are you coming back to play again?"

"I will check my busy schedule and get back to you," Sark said, turning to Sydney. "Ready to go?"

She nodded, and the two of them left the delightful father and daughter behind. The wind had picked up, and Sydney pulled up the collar of her jacket around her neck.

"That was a bit surreal," she commented honestly.

"You don't have to tell me that," Sark replied.

"I thought that little girl was going to eat you alive," Sydney said, smiling.

"I held my own," Sark said, casting a sidelong smirk at Sydney. A smile touched Sydney's lips and she quickly looked away. And they walked down the scenic windswept path, each privately and enjoying the easy company of the other.

* * *

Playing the part of Sark's possible friend Logan Bell is Wentworth Miller. Oh, there is nothing I wouldn't do to this man. If I had to pick between Wentworth Miller and David Anders, it would be a tough decision for yours truely. Bask in his hotness. Bask, I say!


	15. Chapter 9, Part 3

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend

**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)

**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations

**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.

**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.

**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same strong summer.

Summary: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.

**Author's Note:** Part 3 of 3 in Chapter 9! Super fun aliases! Hair dye! The re-introduction of leather pants! Half-naked Sark! What else could you want?!

* * *

"I want to check myself into rehab," Sark told the receptionist at "The Beginnings" rehabilitation center in Asheville, North Carolina. With his normal blond hair streaked with red, a ripped band tee-shirt, and the leather pants he had bought for the Carlile con, he looked every bit the part of a strung out rock star.

He took a long drag on the cigarette he was smoking and gave the receptionist a wink.

"My manager says I can't play the Asian leg of our tout if I don't get cleaned up. Bit of a wanker, really. I mean, who doesn't know that you play better when you're flying a bit, d'ya know what I mean?"

The receptionist nodded indulgently as her fingers danced over the keyboard.

"We're glad you've decided to give our facility a try Mr…"

"You mean to tell me you don't know who I am?" Sark asked incredulously. "I am only the drummer for the band 'Eighteen Foreskins'. We're the next big thing. Opening for Slayer and everything."

On the other end of the comm, Sydney smiled. She remembered Will claiming to be the next big thing, clad in similarly ridiculous looking pants. Sydney hadn't told Sark what to say, and she found it inwardly hilarious he'd come up with the same ludicrous quip.

"Reign it in, Shakespeare," Sydney muttered into the comm., hoping Sark took the hint. She had no visual of Sark's progress out in the rented BMW in the parking lot, so she had to play the mission by ear, so to speak.

"I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with your music," the receptionist answered politely. "Name please?"

"Gunner Pope."

The receptionist tapped a few more keys and smiled.

"Do you have a preference on your room placement?"

"I wouldn't mind a room with a view of the mountains," Sark said, according to plan. "Nature gets my creative juices flowing."

"Of course, Mr. Pope. Just fill out this paperwork and we'll get started."

An hour later Sark was walking through the tastefully decorated corridors of the rehab facility, approaching his assigned room.

"How did check in go?" Sydney asked, ending the hour long radio silence. She had been slightly anxious letting Sark enter the facility alone. He wasn't used to using an alias and while she'd seen him carry them off fairly well, she wouldn't be there to cover for him if he slipped.

"No worries," Sark replied languidly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the pack of cigarettes. He tapped the box, urging one out of the packaging the plopping it into his mouth.

"You're not as bad at this alias thing as you led me to believe," Sydney told him, quietly thankful that the cursory background info they had made for the fake drummer had worked out. Rehab facilities were used to celebrities signing in under fake names, so they had hoped a fake rock star wouldn't raise any alarms.

"I'm an exceptionally good liar," Sark replied, trying to look casual as he waited for his target. "Haven't you noticed?"

"So how was the cavity check?" Sydney asked, ignoring his sass. She drummed her fingers restlessly on the dashboard. "Did they find anything of interest?"

"I hadn't had the pleasure of such a thing. Why, do you think I should have asked for one?"

Sark glanced down the hallway to see the whole reason of this charade strolling down the hallway. Tall, blond, rich and spoiled, Talia Munroe was a celebutante to the extreme. Famous for her indulgent reality show, a very rich father, and a penchant for partying and bad boys, the blond bombshell was currently making headlines for her magnanimous move to rehab. Equally infamous for her extravagant lifestyle was her fashion sense, in particular the necklace she wore as her signature, containing the world renowned diamond, The Heart of Darkness.

"The target approaches," Sark whispered into his comm.

"Good luck," Sydney said, and she meant it.

"I don't need luck from you, you son of a bitch" Sark said in a mock angry voice, and Sydney could hear the smirk in his voice. Of course he would bring up a small, insignificant moment between them years ago in Japan. She marveled at how things had changed since then and yet, how they really hadn't. She didn't have the time to reminisce, and neither did he.

"Wonderful attitude," she retorted right back. "Please get your head in the game."

"I'll make you proud," he said, and Sydney rolled her eyes.

Sark fumbled around in his pockets as Talia approached, as if looking for something.

"Lose something?" Talia asked, looking Sark up and down. Sark's mouth broke into a fake grin.

"My drugs mostly, but also my lighter. I'd trade you a cigarette for a light, if you have one."

Her collar was high for once, making it hard to tell if she was wearing the necklace. He'd have to engage her further before deciding how to proceed.

"That sounds like a fair deal," the blond giggled. Sark lifted two cigarettes to his lips with the girl lit the ends. Sark inhaled the caustic smoke, resisting the urge to cringe or cough. His company breathed in heavily, savoring the experience.

"What are you in for?" Sark asked conversationally.

"Cocaine, but mostly because my publicist made me," Talia replied, flicking the ash off the end of her cigarette. "She said it would make me more likable in the eyes of the public. What about you? You look like you know how to party."

"Well, you know how it is," Sark said lazily. "When you're on tour, anything goes."

"You're in a band?" Talia asked excitedly. "I think rockers are dead sexy. Do you have any tattoos?"

"None in places I could actually show you without citing public indecency," Sark said, and the girl shrieked with laughter.

"You're cute," she said decisively. "What's your name?"

"Gunner Pope. I'm in the band 'Eighteen Foreskins'. Ever heard of us?"

"Oh yeah, of course," Talia lied, as there was no such band. "I went to your…Berlin show. It was rocking."

"Yeah, yeah, it really was," Sark said, trying not to roll his eyes at the girl's childish advances.

"I'm Talia Munroe. I'm sure you've heard of me."

"Oh, right, yeah, you're the heir to the sugar cane fortune or some such rubbish," Sark said, trying to sound impressed. "You wear that famous necklace or something."

"Oh, right," Talia said, putting her hand to her neck. Sark saw now that it was bare; no large diamond sparkled from within the confine of her shirt. "The rehab people thought it would be a liability, like, someone would steal it from me and then escape rehab to sell it for crack or something. They put it in their safe which, for their sake, better be secure or I'll sue the shit out of them. That necklace goes with everything."

Sark sighed. He had hoped he could simply chloroform the debutante and make off with the gem, but to no avail.

"I'd love to stay and hang, but I should get around. I gotta go to group therapy so I can quick get rehabbed so I can entertain the masses. I'll be seeing you around."

"You bet," Talia replied seductively. She waggled her fingers at him. "See you later, sexy."

Sark waited for her to walk away before addressing Sydney.

"What a darling girl."

"Oh, please. That woman was heinous," Sydney said with distaste. "So it looks like you're going to need me after all."

"It appears that way," Sark said, strolling back down the hallway and making his way to the building where he knew security was housed. "I'll take care of the security camera if you put those fingers of yours to work on the safe."

Sydney grabbed the Zac Posen purse which contained the safecracking tools (disguised as makeup, a leftover technology of Marshall's she had appropriated for her own) and checked her bright red lipstick and short blond asymmetrical bob in the mirror. She exited the expensive car and straightened her flowing Diane von Furstenberg dress and adjusted the strap of her Jimmy Choo pumps. One of the more likable aspects of working missions with Sark is that he funded the wardrobe, which she obviously kept because, a) he insisted she did and b) why would he have any use for them? And if she was to be playing the part of a successful band member's girlfriend, she would have to look the part in every way, shape, or form.  
She walked confidently to the front desk of the rehab center, popping her gum as she walked. She removed her oversized sunglasses and examined her nail polish while she addressed the receptionist.

"Hiya," Sydney said in a grating British accent. "I need to see my boyfriend. He just checked in. Gunner Pope?"

"Your name?" The receptionist asked politely.

"Nadine French. He said I'd be on the list."

The endlessly patient receptionist clicked a few keys and smiled.

"You sure are. I'll just need to see a form of identification."

Sydney pulled out the doctored driver's license and watched as the woman checked it against the information and picture of Sydney that Sark had given the woman.

"Thank you, Ms. French. I'm sure Mr. Pope will be happy to see you."

"Oh, I know he will. I just thought I'd give him a little extra _motivation_ for staying in rehab this time."

The receptionist continued smiling as if none of this fazed her.

"Whatever motivates the patient, dear. Room 213."

Sydney winked at her and entered the facility.

"Come to think of it," Sark said over his comm. as he methodically disconnected the camera signals from around the safe. "I _could_ use some of that motivation you were talking about. I'm a very sensitive young man."

"Sensitive would not be the first adjective I'd use to describe you," Sydney countered as she made her way to the room that housed the safe. "How are the cameras looking?"

Sark made the final disconnect and watched as the looped feed made it appear as if the safe room was empty.

"They won't be able to see how beautiful you look today. You're good to go. Just don't take too long."

"Do I ever?" Sydney asked as she put her lock picking tools to work. She was in the safe room within a minute and shut the door quietly behind her. The safe was standard, nothing terribly difficult. The rehab facility security seemed more concerned with keeping people in than letting them out with something potentially important, like say, a ridiculously huge diamond. After a few minutes of unnecessary cajoling from Sark, Sydney opened the safe and palmed the weighty gem. It was beautiful, so dark red it appeared black. She replaced it with the fake they had found on Ebay and closed the safe. With a signal from Sydney, Sark disconnected the looped feed and started the live camera up again.

They met under a beautiful indoor water fall and Sark offered his arm to her, which she reluctantly took.

"You really do look lovely," he said as they made their way to the lobby for their final show.

"Thanks," she said simply, surprising Sark with her lack of sarcasm. "This outfit costs more than I would make in half a year at the CIA, but far be it for me to compromise the mission with a lack of authenticity." She smirked as she took in his appearance. "I really think the red streaks make the ensemble. And I told you those pants would come in handy."

"You did indeed," Sark replied as they entered the lobby. The rock star and his girlfriend turned to the ever uncomplaining receptionist.

"Yeah, I think I'm done here," Sark said brashly to the woman, who didn't bat an eye.

"Well, you did check in under your own accord, so you are free to leave, but I do urge you to stay. Rehab is a lengthy process that can take months, even years to –"

"Right, yeah, I get it," Sark interrupted. "It's for my own good, right, right, but see, rehab is so….anti rock star. My lady Nadine here thinks I can go cold turkey, isn't that right, babe?"

Sark rested his black nail polished hand on Sydney's ass, and ever the professional, Sydney resisted ripping his hand off at the gesture.

"He's my strong man," she said, her lips forming a vapid smile.

"Well, I do wish you luck," the receptionist said, tapping a few keys. "I just need you to sign a form saying you have left on your own accord and that if you relapse it is not the fault of Beginnings Rehabilitation Facility."

Sark signed the slip in a flourish and handed it back to the smiling secretary.

"We do hope your recovery goes well, Mr. Pope. Good luck and thank you for choosing Beginnings."

Sydney offered the woman a perfunctory wave and the two spies exited the facility, where Sark's hand was immediately slapped off by Sydney.

"That was a bit much," she said, slightly annoyed.

"I don't know about that," Sark said amusedly, rubbing his hand. "I think the public display of affection really sold the alias, don't you think?"

Sydney harrumphed, making Sark smirk.

"Do you have the necklace? Let's have a look."

Sydney rolled her eyes and when they were in the safety of the car, she pulled off her wig and let her real hair fall loose around her shoulders. Sark inhaled the sweet smell of hair that seemed to fill the car as she fished around in her very expensive new purse. The diamond filled the palm of her hand, sparkling flawlessly in the North Carolina sun.

"It really is beautiful," Sydney said, admiring the necklace. "Good thing we're keeping it for awhile." Sark nodded, and took the necklace from Sydney. He unclasped the end motioned for her to turn away from him. She gave him an exasperated look.

"You can take it off when we get out of the car. It would be a shame for it to just sit in the bottom of your purse." Reluctantly, she turned away from him. He lifted her sweet smelling hair from the back of her graceful neck and brushed it forward as he roped the necklace around and clasped it shut.

"A bit obvious for my taste," Sark commented as he lifted his hands from Sydney's throat and put the keys in the ignition. "But it looks nice on you."

Sydney fingered the cold chain and faced forward, taking the moment to wonder when it had gotten so easy to be with Sark. There were still problems: he was an insufferable ass, his past misdeeds, her weak, drunk moment with him before he left and the ever slim possibility that she could genuinely attracted to him. She should be wary of this easy, comfortable connection, as it ironically made things more difficult. But how could she deny it when they were finally getting results?

Sydney pushed the thought out of her mind and turned the radio up as she rolled the window down. The sun was warm on her face and they had an hour's drive to the airport. Sydney could use the time to think about absolutely nothing at all.

"Sark, you won't believe this," Sydney called to him from his kitchen table. She had been perusing articles on one of Sark's laptops, trying to find out if Talia Munroe had realized her necklace had been a fake when she came across a recent mention of the debutante in a trashy gossip blog.

"Talia Munroe was recently spotted at Beginnings rehab center, getting intimate with something other than group therapy. The sugar cane heiress was seen canoodling with an unidentified rocker type fellow with red streaked hair and leather pants. Munroe's current boyfriend, B movie actor and WWE star Wes "Iron Fist" Fredricks, could not be reached for comment, but it looks as if he's been kicked to the curb."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what 'canoodling' means," Sark called from the bathroom, where he had just gotten out of the shower rinsing out the now famous red streaks. "Is it bad?"

"I'm not sure if it's great," Sydney said, mostly to herself. From what she could uncover, Talia Munroe or the Beginnings rehab center had no idea a switch had taken place.

"Sydney, I think we have a problem," Sark said from nearby, and Sydney looked up from the computer. Standing in only a towel, clutching a discolored towel in his hand, stood a pink-haired Sark, with a distinctly grouchy look on his face. Sydney was momentarily distracted by his half-naked body, before realizing this was his own house and could pretty much do whatever he pleased, walking around half-naked being one of those things. But still, Sark having an amazing body was something the sex-starved Sydney couldn't exactly ignore. Her eyes skimmed lightly over his exposed flesh, trying to stay completely unaffected by it.

"I thought you said this dye would rinse out."

"Oooh," Sydney said slowly, trying not to laugh. "I said it would _probably_ rinse out. That was a miscalculation on my part."

"This is the antithesis of hilarity."

"See, you are very wrong about that," Sydney said, standing up and walking past Sark to the bathroom he had just exited. "This is quite funny. A powerful, ruthless business man like you in a salon mishap. It's like something out of a chick flick."

She reached into the closet and pulled out a small box.

"And while I really think that pink suits you," Sydney said slyly. "I bought this just in case." She placed the hair dye kit in his hand.

"Oh, if you think you are getting away with this that easily," Sark said, pulled up a nearby stool and placing it near the marble bathroom sink. "You are so very, very mistaken. You're doing this for me."

"You are perfectly capable of doing this yourself," Sydney said, not yielding.

"I realize that," Sark said, wrapping the now pink towel around his bare shoulders. "But you were being purposefully vindictive, just when we had gone and made up."

"Ugh, fine," Sydney said dejectedly, opening the box and pulling out the contents. She put the gloves on and shook up the dye in its bottle. She began to apply the dye, carefully covering the pink in Sark's hair while she massaged his scalp.

"You have amazing hands," Sark said in a low voice, his eyes closed as Sydney ran her fingers through his hair.

"Thanks, I guess," Sydney said noncommittally, trying to keep her eyes on Sark's pink coiffure instead of his bare chest. He couldn't see her if she did sneak a peak, but that wasn't the point. His departure hadn't had the intended affect on their relationship as she had hoped; made it more professional and made moments like these more infrequent. No, if she was to avoid moments like their tequila night, she'd need to stop doing things like _this_. And yet, here she was, her hands intertwined in Sark's hair, in a distinctly intimate act, and she hadn't stopped herself. Sydney didn't dwell on what that meant and simply continued working his hair, thinking that the sooner she finished, the sooner he could go put clothes on.

"Do you find it strange," Sark asked her, oblivious to the uneasiness she felt. "…that this doesn't seem strange any longer?

"I find all of this very strange," Sydney said, though she felt otherwise. It _was_ strange how comfortable they were with one another after only a few months of working with one another. It was very strange she was essentially giving him a massage in this middle of his posh Grecian villa bathroom. It was strange how they seemed to smooth the rough edges of one another without even trying.

"See, I don't find it strange at all," Sark said, leaning into Sydney's touch. She did have amazing hands, or maybe they just felt amazing because they were _hers_. "Didn't I tell you once that we were destined to work with one another? And here we are, destiny personified."

"Destiny is a bit lofty of a word to describe what's going on here," Sydney said, wiping a drip of dye that had crept down his neck. "I like to think of it as relationship of mutual interest and convenience."

"I know you do," Sark said knowingly. "But it is a relationship, nonetheless."

A silence fell between them, Sark enjoying the touch of Sydney's hands, wondering if she was enjoying the feeling of her fingers combing through his hair.

"You never answered my question," Sark told her. Sydney motioned for him to turn around and face her. She leaned him back to the sink and turned on the tap. She felt the suds wash away and the dye wash down the drain as she ran her fingers through his blond tresses.

"Which incredibly inappropriate question of yours would that be?"

"Did you miss me?"

Sydney rolled her eyes, even though she knew he couldn't see.

"I didn't answer that for a reason," Sydney said, slightly annoyed.

"For what possible reason could you not answer that?" Sark asked. "If the answer is no, just say no. There's no reason for you not to answer it…unless the answer is yes."

"It's a stupid question," Sydney retorted, turning the water off abruptly. "I won't indulge your fantasies by addressing it. You can sit up, your hair is done."

"Say no, Sydney," Sark said, looking at her for the first time in minutes. "Just say no and I won't ask again."

Sydney looked at him, the word "no" screaming in her brain. And yet, her mouth couldn't form the word. She knew if she said it, if she managed to bark out the no he was expecting of her…it would be a lie.

"I…" Sydney started, about to say something she knew she would regret. Her cell phone rang, loud and insistent, saving her. She looked down at it, not recognizing the number. Confused, she lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Sydney Bristow," Cesar Martinez spoke low and grave. "Are you ready to kill Arvin Sloane?"

Sydney didn't hesitate.

"Absolutely."

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter 9

1. Gregory and the Hawk, "Isabelle". **Listen to when:** Sark and Sydney first reunite.

Lyrics: _Now it's just you two  
in a world of poems and paintings  
I guess this means I'm through  
it also means I'm breaking  
but Isabelle what can I do  
if I'm caught in him, this man you love?  
and Isabelle what can I do  
if his strong has make it hard to shove him away? _

but Isabelle what can I do?  
the last thing I need is to end up askew  
and Isabelle what can I do?  
the prophets make it difficult  
Isabell what can I do  
in the few weeks time you're out of sight?  
and Isabelle what can I do  
just because it feels alright? 

2. Ryan Adams, "Desire". **Listen to when:** Sark and Sydney have already listened to Dr. Carlile's final words up until Sark's final question.

Lyrics: _Two hearts fading, like a flower.  
And all this waiting, for the power.  
For some answer, to this fire.  
Sinking slowly. The waters higher.  
Desire _

With no secrets. No obsession.  
This time I'm speeding with no direction.  
Without a reason. What is this fire?  
Burning slowly. My one and only.  
Desire

You know me. You don't mind waiting.  
You just can't show me, but God I'm praying,  
That you'll find me, and that you'll see me,  
That you run and never tire.  
Desire 

3. The Lost Trailers, "Postcard Home". **Listen to when:** Sark and Sydney go to Logan's house.

Lyrics: _I needed time today, and I needed space,  
and I found it all on these barren waves.  
I could have called you to say I was gone,  
but I never felt like I needed to. _

I needed peace today, and I needed space,  
and I felt my time slip into the glaze,  
I reached behind me to grasp where I've gone,  
and I found that you were there all along.

I don't leave cause I don't need you, I leave because I do,  
and everyday that I'm away keeps me coming back to you.  
I'm not asking you to sympathize, just know that I wander...

Yes, I roam sometimes. 

4. Brandi Carlile, "What Can I Say". **Listen to when:** Maddy enters until Sark and Sydney leave Logan's house.

Lyrics: _How rules can I break  
how many lies can I make  
how many roads can I turn  
to find me a place where the bridge doesn't burn _

O lord what can I say  
I am so sad since you went away  
time time ticking on me  
Alone is the last place I wanted to be  
Lord what can I say 

5. Amy Winehouse, "Rehab". **Listen to when:** Sark enters rehab.

Lyrics: _  
I don't ever wanna drink again  
I just, ooh, I just need a friend  
I'm not gonna spend ten weeks  
Have everyone think I'm on the mend _

And it's not just my pride  
It's just 'til these tears have dried 

6. The Odds, "Heterosexual Man". **Listen to when:** Sark and Talia chat it up.

Lyrics: _I wanna do every woman I know  
I wanna do it to them in their clothes  
I wanna make it with them, don't you know  
I'm a heterosexual man  
It's just a problem with my glands _

I'm a heterosexual, heterosexual man  
I'm a heterosexual, heterosexual man 

7. The Coral, "Dreaming of You". **Listen to when:** Sydney enters the facility to help Sark out.

Lyrics: _When I'm down and my hands are tied (hands are tied)  
I cannot reach a pen for me to draw the line (draw the line)  
From this pain I just can't disguise  
Its gonna hurt but I'll have to say goodbye _

Up in my lonely room  
When I'm dreaming of you (wah oooo)  
Oh what can I do  
I still need you, but  
I dont want you now 

8. The Servant, "Liquefy". **Listen to when:** Sark and Sydney are back at Sark's house.

Lyrics: _Still sleeping you woke me up  
Muttering in your dream  
In darkness I could feel your  
Your little body breathe  
And I thought  
You feel just fine to me  
You feel just fine to me  
You feel just fine to me  
Shall we liquefy  
Oh you and I  
And mingle in the stream?  
Shall we liquefy  
Oh you and I  
And appear in the ocean's dream?  
Shall we liquefy  
Oh you and I  
And vanish into the sea?_


	16. Chapter 10

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** wakingepiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** The long awaited chapter 10 is here! Thank you for sticking with me so far...I hope not to dissapoint. There is an homage to possibly my most favorite movie of all time in this chapter and if you share my obsession with this particular 80's classic, holler back at me! Soundtrack's at the end like always!

* * *

Where an unanswered question had filled the air like a heady perfume moments before, silence enveloped Sydney and Sark with one single phone call. Sark stood in front of Sydney in a towel and nothing else, still feeling the ghostly pressure of her fingers in his hair that had been a reality seconds before. The moment had been lost at the first ring of her cell phone, but he could feel something shift between them.

That was gone, now. Along with the last shred of lightheartedness she might have had in months. She was all business, turning away from his half-naked form and closing her eyes, as if shutting out one of her senses would enhance her hearing.

"Absolutely," Sydney said to Cesar with clear conviction. She turned away from Sark, thankful for the interruption of what was bound to be a very inappropriate conversation. She had known in that second, and not a moment before, that she had missed him when he had gone away. Why it had become so clear to her in this strange moment, her with her hands in his hair and he so scantily dressed, Sydney did not know. Where there had been so much confusion regarding her and Sark's relationship for the entirety of their partnership, there was suddenly clear and terrifying clarity that she wanted him near her.

"When can you meet?" Cesar asked urgently. Sydney could hear his barely restrained anticipation over the earpiece of the phone and she felt a thrill of dread flow through her.

"Now. Whenever. Name the place and time."

"Willow Grove cemetery. New Orleans. Look for the LeBeau mausoleum. The day after tomorrow, 6.p.m. Will you be there?"

"I'll be there," Sydney said resolutely.

"In four days you'll be able to rest," Cesar said, in a tone that Sydney chilled Sydney rather than reassured her. "In four days, the man that ruined your life will be dead. Does that comfort you, Sydney?"

"I find no comfort in what we are about to do," Sydney said, low and grave. "But I do find it to be a necessity that's a long time coming. I'll see you soon."

Sydney disconnected the phone call. She didn't turn around to face Sark, but felt acutely felt his eyes boring into the back of her.

"I'm leaving," she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

"So I gathered," Sark answered her, careful to keep his voice even. His feelings on the matter of Sloane's demise at Sydney's hand were mixed, at best. There was a part of him that knew how much she needed to do this. Sloane had been the destroyer of all things Sydney had treasured and loved. He had brought unfathomable ruin and destruction to countless people; the families of which Sark believed would dance over his grave if they knew who had taken their loved ones from them. Sloane deserved to meet his maker. Sydney would be free of Sloane's dark influence and therefore more focused, and ultimately, free.

On the other hand, this murder and tenuous alliance with Cesar Martinez was an unnecessary liability in the search for Irina. Why now? Why with him? Nadia wouldn't be any less dead with Sloane's murder. Sark, however, doubted Sydney would see the logic in this line of thinking.

Sark's final thought on the matter was surprisingly not on how this would all affect him, as his thoughts usually were. Sloane's mark was burned into everything Sydney had done or will continue to do. Even if she chooses to take his life and be rid of him one and for all, the freedom Sydney would feel would be forever tainted. Knowing she had committed murder, had willingly and knowingly taken someone's life as a personal vendetta, would make her no better than Sloane himself in her own eyes. Sark had no qualms about taking a life if it meant saving his own, but this would be a line that Sydney could never forgive herself for crossing. He didn't know if he would have the will or patience to deal with her when that moment came.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone," Sydney said, sensing movement behind her. She stiffened and continued in a carefully restrained voice. "Could be a few days, a week or two, maybe. I trust that you'll take care of the necklace and the painting, should Logan get done with it?"

"Of course," Sark said, closing the distance between them. Standing close enough to feel unnerved, but far enough that she didn't run away from him, Sark opened his mouth to form a statement he thought better than to say.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said slowly. "Sloane isn't going anywhere. Eventually he will get what's coming to him. Perhaps you're letting the untimely death of your sister cloud your judgment."

Sark braced himself for what he expected to be an explosive diatribe of his shortcomings. When the tirade of insults failed to come, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she beat him to it.

"You're right," she said quietly. She tilted her head behind her but still remained with her back toward him, as if facing him would break her. To Sark, the silhouette of her beautiful face was as if carved from marble; a stunning statue of utter hopelessness.

"I am letting Nadia's death influence my actions. But I have spent my entire life doing what I thought was right, what I thought was best for other people. I tried to protect everyone I ever cared for and it got me _nothing_. All I received for doing the right thing was death. If I was stronger, if I had anything left in me, I'd do the right thing. But I'm done, Sark. I am drained and wounded and I am dying inside. I want _him_ to hurt now. I'm doing the wrong thing because it's the only thing I have left to do. Thank you for stating my options but I've made my decision."

Sark was temporarily dumbstruck at her candor. She was laying her deepest fear and desires at his feet and all he could do was stand with her back to him, unwilling to move for fear of breaking her. He wasn't even aware of his hand moving but suddenly he felt it moving toward her shoulder, as if his touch could bring her some sort of comfort.

She moved away from him before he made contact, something he immediately was grateful for. If anything, his feeble attempt at calming her would only make her more agitated. That and he'd feel like a fool for even attempting such a thing.

She exited the bathroom and made for the guest bedroom she had come to occupy in the past week. Sark took the opportunity to recede to his own quarters and dress himself. When he had finished he went to the hall closet and picked out her coat. When he came to stand in her doorway, she was packing hastily, throwing clothes haphazardly into a suitcase. She looked up at him standing in the archway, a mixture of anxiety and weariness plaguing her face.

"Don't try and talk me out of this," Sydney said wearily, throwing a sweater half-heartily into her bag. "I don't think I can take you imposing morals that you don't have on me."

Ignoring the jab, Sark shrugged. "I'm not going to try and talk you out of it. I was only trying to list your options. If you think that killing Sloane will make you a better person, I stand wholeheartedly behind you."

"Wonderful," Sydney said sarcastically. "Your support of premeditated murder means a lot to me."

"What I'm _trying_ to say," Sark said pointedly, walking toward her with her jacket. "Is that I understand your needing to do this. And if you'd let me continue uninterrupted, I thought I'd offer my assistance, if you wanted it."

"Assistance?" Sydney asked incredulously, taking the coat from him.

"This is not going to be easy for you," Sark stated. Sydney did not object. Sark continued. "And I just thought that since I'm here, since we work well together, that you could use me, if you wanted. You don't know Cesar, he could be unstable. I could be your backup; a familiar face in the shadows, if you should need me."

Sydney studied the blond man in front of her, not exactly sure what she should say. She felt that deep down, this was her fight, no one else's, and she should be the one to end Sloane. On the other hand, Sark was an undeniable asset. It couldn't hurt to have him around, if she should need him. She needed strength to do what she knew was to be done; strength she wasn't' sure she possessed.

_No_, Sydney thought to herself. She couldn't put herself in a situation where she needed Sark. Finding her parents was one thing, something they were both invested in. This vendetta with Sloane was hers, hers and Cesar's. If she let Sark accompany her…it wouldn't be hers any longer. It would be another thing bringing them closer together, intertwining their lives in an inescapable way.

"I am a tool at your disposal," Sark said deliberately. "Use me."

Sydney closed the suitcase tight, feeling the locks give into the pressure of her hands and fasten fast. She threw the coat over her arm and stared at its fabric, as if the hound's-tooth texture held a perfect answer.

"Not this time," she said firmly, but not unkindly. "But…thank you for the offer."

"You're welcome," Sark said somewhat stiffly. They stood in front of one another, the magnitude of what Sydney was about to do hanging over them like a haunting specter. Impulsively, Sydney stuck out her hand, an unexpected peace offering that Sark felt strange receiving.

"I'll see you soon," Sydney said, the promise resonating in Sark's ears.

"Come back in one piece or don't come back at all," Sark said, putting his cool hand in hers.

Their palms touched and Sydney looked down at their intertwined hands. Sark carefully avoided putting pressure on Sydney's damaged fingertips, a gift from Faust that was still tender and sore.

Sydney's mind went back to the night he followed her to the dinner club in New York, she in a blue dress, he in a tux, singing a song to her she had serenading him with years earlier. It seemed like such a long time ago…had it only been three months? She remembered noticing his hands, how if they belonged to anyone else she would have called them beautiful. And now here she was, living in the den of the animal himself, holding his hand more than actually shaking it. Every second that passed was a second too long to be considered a business-like handshake. There was a promise in his touch, but Sydney was already letting go.

She walked by him without a word of goodbye and Sark did not turn to watch her retreat. He heard her soft footsteps across the house and the definite shutting of a door and she was gone. Only when he was sure she had left did he move, his bare feet taking him to his study, where he sat down at his computer. It only took a few seconds to bring up what he was looking for, despite the hurriedness in which his decision had taken place.

Turning up the computer speaker, Sark heard the sound of a car door shutting, keys jingling, and the engine roaring to life. Sark heard the familiar pitch of Sydney's sigh as clearly through his speakers as if she had been breathing softly in his own ear. The decision to put a listening device on her coat had been last minute; a measure she would surely eviscerate him for should she find the tiny, clear bug on the underside of the coat's lapel.

He didn't doubt her ability to take care of herself. That wasn't the reason he wanted to keep tabs on her while she was out of sight. As he sat at the computer, listening to the indie radio station Sydney had on her satellite preset stations, he wasn't sure he knew the exact reason why he had bugged her in the first place. But he felt better now that he had done it.

* * *

The rest of the day and the next passed slowly for Sark. The house was filled with the innocuous sounds of Sydney reaching the airport, boarding her plane, and tastefully ignoring the man who hit in her during the flight through the listening device he had planted on her. Sark flitted from room to room, filling his time with repetitive tasks that distracted his attention from the bout of inaction he was restricted to.

In between updating his contact dossiers and cleaning his guns, Sark did manage to call Logan and get an update on the painting. All was going according to plan according to Bell, and Sark could expect a phone call within the next week or so bearing the good news of the finished portrait. Sark hadn't even minded terribly when Logan insisted Sark talk to Madeline, who had been talking about him nonstop since his visit. After a few minutes of nonsensical babbling from the child Sark simply could not bear to put on the niceties of polite answers to the girl and hung up. When the phone rang three seconds later, Sark rolled his eyes, sure that it was Logan calling back to chastise him for hanging up on his perfect little angel or some such nonsense.

"Listen, Bell, I have better things to do than listen to your daughter talk about her perfect princess dress or some such bullsh –"

"Hello Sark."

Sark stopped dead in his tracks, not quite believing he was recognizing the voice on the other end of the line correctly. It had been so long but there was no mistaking the sultry trill of Irina Derevko's voice.

"Irina," Sark said, hiding the relief in his voice from his longtime mentor. She would not tolerate any sort of emotion shown at her expense. She'd recognize the weakness immediately and Sark did not make the mistake of showing weakness to Derevko women any longer.

"Have you done what The Messenger has asked you to do?" Irina's voice did not waver. It was clear and cool, as if she were the one in charge and not the person being held against her will.

"Of course," Sark returned confidently. "Have you been hurt?"

"Don't ask such trivial questions when our time is so short," Irina said coldly, and Sark bit his lip. He would have thought her safety would have been his primary concern, but she pressed on quickly.

"The Messenger is aware of your illness."

Sark blanched. The color ran from his cheeks as he brushed past the question.

"And what illness is that?"

"The illness that made my daughter carry your lifeless body out of a German medical facility."

Sark had been afraid of this. He had been confident that only he and Sydney knew of his sudden medical problem, but if The Messenger was now aware of it as well, he was a liability.

"That? Nothing The Messenger should be concerned about. A trifle, really. He shouldn't be dissatisfied with our progress. Sydney and I have taken care of everything he's asked for."

"That's not what I'm calling about. What is needed to be known is the extent of the illness and how it has or will hinder your work."

"I told you, Irina, it hasn't hindered –"

"Do not interrupt me again, Sark. I have very little time to tell you what is needed of you and I will not waste time with your tremulous excuses. Have you had gaps in your memory…periods of time where you cannot account for your whereabouts? Or perhaps woken up in an entirely different time and place, doing something not of your own volition?"

_She knows_, Sark thought with alarm.

"Perhaps," Sark replied cagily. The Messenger had to be listening in on the conversation, but it seemed as if he already knew of Sark's weakness, so Sark didn't see the point in denying the obvious.

"You need to know how far this condition has gone," Irina said, with guarded urgency. "The Messenger knows about Dr. Carlile. That doesn't much matter now," she supplied quickly, as if she felt Sark's need to interrupt.

"Did you kill anyone else while in one of your fugue states?" Irina asked softly. "Someone that was already supposed to be dead?"

Sark's blood turned icy as he mind reeled to the half-forgotten dream where he murdered Michael Vaughn. A man that was supposedly already dead, according to Sydney. A man that had taken 15 rounds to the chest and yet…could Sark be sure it was only a dream?

"I don't know," Sark answered honestly.

"Well, I suggest you find out, lest The Messenger send someone to find out for you. Goodbye, Sark. I'll be seeing you."

The call ended abruptly and Sark was left with the phone pressed against his ear, Irina's words ringing ominously in his ears. It was obvious what he was being asked to do. But did he really want to know the answer? If he really had murdered Agent Vaughn, that meant he didn't not die that day by the train tracks.

Sark couldn't begin to unravel what this meant for him or for Sydney right now. Or, who was he kidding, he didn't _want_ to know what it meant. At least, not until he knew if it was true.

Only one way to find out.

* * *

Sydney walked through the winding path of the cemetery, her eyes taking the in the worn, majestic mausoleums and the sad, haunting angel statues that watched over them. Weeping willows created a canopy for sunlight to filter through, throwing the crumbling resting places into soft shadow. She hadn't been to New Orleans since before Katrina and Sydney mourned for the city as it once was. But the rebirth of the city was evident and Sydney found herself wishing she was here for pleasure instead of business.

She came upon the LeBeau mausoleum, set apart from its neighbors by an ornate fence enclosure. It was surprisingly chilly and Sydney pulled the collar up on her hounds tooth jacket. She looked down at her watch to check the time when she felt a shift in the breeze and shadow wash over her back. She didn't turn around.

"Hello Cesar," she said, knowing the man she had come to meet was facing her back.

"Sydney," she heard him reply before turning to face him. He removed his fedora hat and laid it against his chest, bowing slightly. "I didn't know if you were going to come."

"Then you underestimated me," Sydney said seriously. "Big mistake."

Cesar cocked his head and regarded her for a moment. Sydney was thrown off by the intensity of his gaze and he must have noticed her unease, because his stare shifted from her face to somewhere over her shoulder.

"I didn't really notice before, and maybe it's because she's gone, but you remind me so much of her. I see Nadia in you and it is…painful."

He put the hat back on his head and reached to his back pocket. Sydney's hand instinctively went to her firearm, a move that Cesar did not miss.

"Peace, Sydney," he said, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket and holding it up in mock surrender. "We are on the same side. I just wanted to show you the plan."

Sydney's hand fell from her side and reached for the ornately decorated paper.

"The Goblin's Labyrinth is a masquerade ball based on Venetian Histories, Celtic Faerie and Goblin Lore," she read aloud, her skepticism evident. "Lost within the borders of chaos and light, nobles dance among the Fey while goblins wait with hungry eyes in the wings. Surrealistic nightmare fades into darkest fantasy as the Goblin King holds court in the mortal realm for a single night of the year."

Sydney handed the invitation back to Cesar, unable to hide her derision.

"You think Sloane is going to be at this…sci-fi convention?"

"It's not a sci-fi convention," Cesar said evenly. "It's one night of the year that the New Orleans elite can forget that their city was destroyed. They prefer to distract themselves with alcohol, fantasy, and other mind-altering substances. It's an excuse for the rich to dress up like fairies and goblins under the guise of a masquerade. Letting their freak flags fly just as long as no one can recognize you. And our man Sloane is going to be in the thick of it."

"Weird," Sydney said.

"Yeah," Cesar agreed, stuffing the invitation back into his pocket. "And you have a front row ticket to it all. I'd go, but I can't risk being caught and getting put in jail. I want you to slip something into his drink. With the masks, I think you can do a good enough job staying hidden. Make sure to be right next to him while he falls so you can be the one to call an ambulance. I'll be right there, ready to slip our man into the back of my ambulance and take him to a nearby warehouse where we can put an end to his miserable existence."

Sydney didn't answer right away. She mulled the plan over, seeing how it could go wrong at any turn. The plan's advantages outweigh its shortcomings and no matter what Cesar had put her up to, she just wants the whole thing to be done. Over. Finished. Forever.

"Alright," Sydney finally agrees.

"Good," Cesar says, but Sydney can see that he is not pleased. No, he looks tired, anxious, and sad, somehow all at the same time and Sydney wonders how he ever could have been a good spy, when she can so plainly see the misery consuming him. She wonders if she looks the same.

Sydney wants to ask him about Nadia. She wants to know everything he knows. She wants to know about her childhood. She wants to know about how she survived the constant Rambaldi experimentation of her early years to become a carefree criminal. She wants to know how she used the harsh reality of a motherless existence to become the amazing woman Sydney knows…knew.

She doesn't ask him. She doesn't think either of them could take it.

"So, first things first, Miss Bristow," Cesar says, waking her from her reverie. "We need to find you a dress."

They exit the cemetery and Sydney can't help but notice how beautiful it is. Whether the beauty of the cemetery was despite or because of its inescapable association with death, Sydney did not know. She realizes then that she doesn't have to choose. It's simply beautiful and that's enough for her.

* * *

Sark considered exhuming the grave himself. Getting a spade, rolling his sleeves up, getting the dirt Michael Vaughn was buried in under his nails and on his clothes. He felt that if the situation was reversed and it was Vaughn digging up Sark's grave, that the other man would complete the act by himself. That was just the kind of man Vaughn, or as Sydney discovered, Michauex, was. Offering one last bit of respect to a man that had hardly ever offered him some in kind was just Vaughn's style.

All the more reason Sark hired two men to dig up Vaughn's grave in the federal cemetery in the dead of night. Especially in light of what Sydney had told him about the double life of Michael Vaughn, it was all Sark could do not to set the damn thing on fire. He would never be the kind of man Vaughn was, or pretended to be, and Sark felt as if he was almost proving that to the dead man. The Brit reveled in that fact.

"Sir?" One of the diggers called quietly to him, and Sark's attention was immediately brought back to the task at hand. They had hit the casket and were dusting the loose dirt off the shiny, polished surface.

"Move," Sark said unceremoniously to the diggers, who quickly climbed out of the hole to make room for quietly dangerous man. They moved a few feet away from the grave, trying not to implicate themselves any further by witnessing whatever the blond man was going to do to the body.

Sark had seen many dead bodies before. He had been the cause of death in almost all of the occasions where he had been in the presence of a corpse. There was no revulsion, no hesitancy in dealing with dead flesh. It was a fact of life and even more so a fact of his business that he be comfortable with the more unpleasant aspects of life. And yet, standing over the casket of a man whom he called enemy, Sark hesitated. He hesitated and he cursed himself for it.

He needed Vaughn's body to be in the casket, rattled with bullet holes. Even, miraculously somehow, the body was there with a slash across his throat, at least then Sark would know. He would know Vaughn hadn't died next to the train tracks and it had been Sark, under some kind of ruse or sickness that had ended his life. Sark could move on from that point. Certainty was his friend. But uncertainty was unacceptable. He needed facts. He needed something concrete. He needed an end in sight.

Sark threw the casket open.

The pristine, white silk of the coffin was not marred by the bullet-ridden body of Agent Michael Vaughn. There was no vicious knife wound disfiguring the stubbly neck of the man whose wife he had stolen.

It was empty. No drop of blood or lone fingernail to suggest a dead body had been laid to rest in the graved marked with his enemy's name. And yet…

Sark's flashlight swept over the empty casket. There. There were several brown hairs at the head end of the coffin. Sark reached into a pocket, pulled out tweezers and a plastic, sealable bag and deposited the evidence inside. Perhaps this hadn't been Michael Vaughn's resting place. But it had been someone's.

Sark climbed out of the grave.

"Cover this up as convincingly as you can," Sark told the men, who were standing some feet away. "I think you've been compensated fairly generously for your deed. However, if you should forget my kindness if agents should come to your door asking about a grave that has been disturbed, let me leave you with this."

Sark reached into his shirt pocket and shined the flashlight on it to illuminate the writing,

"Hector Ortez," he addressed the first man. "Son of Juan and Maria Ortez, who live at 234 Cypress St. in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Husband of Greta Price Ortez, father of Carter and Brenda Ortez, 45 Market St, Los Angeles, California."

Turning to the second man, Sark intoned, "James Martin, Son of Samantha Martin, who lives at 612 Applewood Lane, Los Angeles, California. Ex-husband to Helen Turner, 1992 Brookwood Road, San Francisco, California. Father to Richard Turner, who lives with his mother. Girlfriend, Francine Walsh and son, Matthew Walsh, live at 54 Pine Street, Los Angeles, California."

Sark folded up the paper and placed it back into his pocket.

"I don't think you want to test whether I'm serious telling you that I will kill any one of those people I've listed if you betray my confidence. Finish the job and leave. Pray that I never have to see either of your faces again."

The men, their faces ashen even in the darkness, nodded mutely. They quickly shuffled back to the dirt pile and began throwing the earth back onto the grave. Sark turned up the collar of his jacket, not knowing exactly when it had gotten so cold.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to next. But he knew what he wanted to do.

* * *

It was like being in a dream.

The Goblin's Labyrinth Masquerade Ball looked as if Shakespeare's "Mid Summer Night's Dream" exploded into some gothic nightmare and its pastoral characters mutated into lecherous beasts. The dress was as wild as it was varied. Women donned full Victorian regalia, fairy costumes, medieval corsets, or in some cases, very little at all, with pasties and body paint covering their most intimate of areas. The men were just as untamed as their feminine counterparts, dancing and mingling with bare chests, leather pants, silk cravats or even the occasional tuxedo. The only thing uniting everyone's appearance was the hand stamp everyone received on the way in: the circular swirling symbol of eternity etched on their skin.

The masks were most unnerving of all. Distorted, bestial faces grinned at Sydney from every corner. There were the devilishly beautiful masks of fairies, their lips pouty and their eyes spiteful. There were the goblin masks, with long and sometimes phallic shaped noses. There were ugly masks with bulbous pustules distorting its features, elaborate masks with huge peacock feathers brushing the ceiling, skull masks that grinned lifeless smiles. Even a man with a full lion's head, complete with mane mingling with its wearer's blond dreadlocks danced, kissed, and rubbed against one another in the perfect anonymity of the masquerade.

The gallery the ball was being held in only enhanced the strange, unworldly atmosphere. Music that could only be described as a mixture of classical, gothic, and electronica made the floor and walls beat like blood through veins with the heavy bass. Lights and lasers flickered ominously in the mostly dark rooms. Women dressed like seasonal nymphs served drinks, their lithe bodies covered in glitter and very little else. Silks draped from coliseum pillars, completed the effect of a goblin king holding court for a single night of the year.

Sydney felt unnerved. Not at her appearance so much. No, she was confident and knowledgeable enough in herself that she knew she looked good. Great even, if you were into this sort of thing. It was something that her six-year-old self would have called a princess dress. The long, silvery white gown was gorgeous and somewhat conservative, compared to what most of the other women were wearing. Tight across the silvery white bodice, showing off her smooth, muscular shoulders, the dress billowed at the waist in luscious, silky folds. Her dark, wavy wig was piled high on her head and cascaded down her back in ringlets with silvery, leafy tendrils weaved throughout. The snow white and silver mask covered her entire upper face, leaving only her frosty pink smile visible.

She was unnerved because she just couldn't picture this being the end. The end of a lifetime's worth of lies in the death of one man. Something was off and she simply could not place it.

Sydney walked through the swarm of writhing bodies, feeling slightly lightheaded. It was so hot in beautiful dress; Sydney felt the strange urge to rip the clothing from her body. She could be free of the cloying material, free to run away from this place.

Sydney shook her head. Where had that thought come from? She blinked her eyes, determined to find Sloane in amongst the throng of bodies. He could be anyone, they were all wearing masks. She waded through the dance floor, turning round and round, trying to see a figure that stood out, that screamed of the man that had ruined her.

And yet, she couldn't concentrate. She wished Cesar was on comms, or had come to the party in tow. Why had she thought this would work? It seemed like a good idea before, but now, all Sydney could concentrate on was the flashing, moving lights, bouncing off the stone walls. The light seemed to pulse with the music, pulsing in time with her rapidly accelerating heartbeat.

"Care for a dance?" A man with a deep, Cajun-tinged accent asked her. Sydney tried to focus on the man's face, but like everyone else, he was masked. His suit was blue, shimmery, and with what Sydney could surmise as a white open necked shirt underneath. His mask was a blood red and skull like, with long, pointed gazelle-like horns coming out of each side. She could not determine his hair color or age. His voice seemed kind and without agenda. Certainly not Sloane, but moving around the room might present an opportunity to find him.

"It would be a pleasure," Sydney asked, her accent Cajun in kind. He took her hand into his gloved one and led her to the dance floor. The music was strange, hypnotic even, and Sydney found herself closing her eyes briefly, feeling the beat thrum through her. As soon as she realized what she was doing, her eyes flew open, trying to find Sloane. Her partner held her gently, but firmly, guiding her expertly around the perimeter of the dance floor.

"Are you looking for someone? You seem very far away." The man asked her, and Sydney found herself concentrating hard on his voice that was almost eaten up by the music and crowd.

Sydney tried to look embarrassed, but found it hard to convey such emotion under a mask.

"I'm looking for an ex-boyfriend," Sydney lied easily, though her head seemed cloudy and her thoughts fuddled slightly. "We come here every year and we broke up recently and I've missed him. I want to find him and show him what he's missing."

"A man that would let a beauty like you slip through his fingers is a fool indeed," the man reasoned, the compliment falling easily off his tongue. The man stumbled slightly, making Sydney's already head ache with his effort of recovery.

"I don't know about that," Sydney replied, feigning discomfiture at the man's flattery. "But thanks. Maybe you've seen him? Mid – fifties, graying hair, a bit short, probably wearing ridiculous looking glasses. His name is Arvin. Arvin Sloane."

"You're not painting him in a particularly kind light," the man said, leading her into an elegant waltz. "But the description sounds familiar. In a crowd where mostly everyone is young, inebriated, and naked, someone like that would stand out. That wouldn't be him, over there, would it?"

The man gestured over Sydney's shoulder to a group of conservatively dressed men. They were without the garish, mystical garb of the other party goers, clearly business making connections, expanding their business networks. At the center stood a man, his devilish mask held by the stick that he could put up to his face, but kept it at his side while he chatted. Arvin Sloane stood making idle conversation, laughing, and sipping champagne as if his daughter hadn't died a mere few weeks ago.

"That's him," Sydney said, noticing the man's hand had gripped tighter around her waist as she said so. "I think I'm going to go spy on him, make sure he isn't dancing with any of these half-naked elf-looking girls."

Sydney stepped back and felt like her partner didn't want to relinquish her.

"Good luck," the man bid her. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Sydney furrowed her brow at this, but quickly smiled, squeezing the man's hand before releasing it. She bade him a small wave before disappearing into the crowd. Sydney made her way up to the group of men Sloane found himself in, catching the eye of one of the men on the edge of the gathering. Sydney looked away coquettishly and the man smiled. She sauntered over to him, turning him away from Sloane.

"Wow, what a great mask," Sydney told the man, her finger simultaneously working a large ring around her finger. She used her thumb to flip the jewel on the ring open, revealing a small compartment into where a small, innocuous looking tablet lay. With her eyes only momentarily flicking from the man, Sydney waved her ring over the champagne class Sloane had placed on the table.

"Thanks," the man said to Sydney, his large face coloring. "I thought this whole night was going to be silly, but it's actually quite a good time. Don't think I've seen so much skin since this one time, my business partner, he's dead now but wow was he a pervert, he took me to this club in Thailand…," the man babbled on.

Sydney barely heard him as she watched Sloane out of the corner of her eye. He smiled a fake smile to the man to his side; Sydney could see the strain in face as he tried to make it appear sincere. She thought she caught him roll his eyes as he reached for his champagne glass. Sydney reached into her small bag and held the cell phone in her hand, ready for his fall.

"…and this Thai girl wanted me to pay 1,000! Can you believe it?" Sydney's businessman asked incredulously. She smiled thinly, looking at Sloane out of the corner of her eye. He sipped his drink, listening to his companion's talk. He placed the glass back down again and Sydney waited.

"So my business partner, God rest his soul, says to the girl, 'Hey lady! I don't even _like_ fish! Hey, whoa buddy, you okay?"

Sydney's business turned to Sloane, who was clutching at his arm and breathing rapidly.

"My arm…" Sloane wheezed. "I think I'm having a heart attack."

"Oh my God!" Sydney gasped in her Cajun accent. Her cell phone was already out and she hit the speed dial. She waved off someone who had whipped out their cell phone to call 911. "I got it, I've already called."

Cesar picked up on the first ring.

"911, what's your emergency, Sydney?"

"I have man here at 1203 Decatur Street, at the Masquerade Ball, he's having a heart attack, I think. Please hurry."

"That was very convincing," Cesar said, and Sydney could hear him starting the ignition of the ambulance. "I'll be there in minutes."

Sydney crouched next to Sloane, holding his hand. Even though she had worn bright green contacts and the mask covered most of her face, she felt her hand grow clammy as she prayed Sloane wouldn't see through to her. Sydney waved people away, pleading to give the man air.

Cesar arrived a few minutes later, and the people around her marveling and complimenting on how prompt the ambulance had been. The men Cesar had hired as paramedics laid the backboard down and gently shifted Sloane's still body onto it. They picked it up and Sydney followed them, her billowing skirts held up to walk beside as they rolled Sloane toward the front entrance.

She held his hand and fought her own reluctance to look down at him. He was peering at her through half-closed lids, his eyes unfocused and pupils dilated.

"Nadia," he whispered and Sydney's eyes went wide. He blinked hard and looked up at her again. He closed his eyes and sighed, his hand clutching his chest. Sydney looked to one of the men posing as paramedics and gestured her head to the oxygen mask hanging on the Sydney of the gurney. He quickly placed the mask over Sloane's mouth, to quell any further talk.

Sloane was quickly loaded into the back of the ambulance and Sydney, still feeling a bit woozy, steadied herself before climbing into the ambulance cab. Sydney looked out the vehicle's bay, at the concerned and confused people staring at a man closer to death than they all realized. She turned her back to them and stared straight ahead, catching Cesar's eye in the rear-view mirror from his position in the driver's seat. The sirens began their dirge, the lights flashed and the ambulance pulled away from the revelry and into something infinitely darker.

Cesar drove only a few minutes until he pulled to a stop. The men posing as paramedics had apparently already been told their services would not be needed after the party and they stood and exited the cab. Sydney spied Cesar pulling out wads of cash and handing them to the three men in turn, who quickly took their spoils and ran off into the night.

Cesar closed the cab of the ambulance and took his place I the driver's seat. The night flew by the window quickly, the lights and sound of New Orleans seeming to be running away from the three killers in the ambulance. It couldn't have been more than a half hour but to Sydney the drive had seemed like an eternity. The ambulance slowed and stopped and Sydney stood in the back of the vehicle and quickly opened the doors, suddenly needing to breathe clean, Sloane-less air.

She held her voluminous skirt and hopped out of the ambulance, walking away while Cesar wheeled the stretcher out from vehicle bay. The warehouse had been abandoned for some time now, Sydney surmised. Cobwebs stretched long and thick between hulking, rusted machinery. She listened to the crickets and cicadas chirping outside in the swampland, not quite masking the sound of the stretcher's legs unfolding beneath Sloane's weight.

Cesar wheeled Sloane's prostrate body near to where Sydney was obstinately looking in the other direction. She was becoming increasingly more agitated; her palms itched and sweat dotted her brow and collected between her face and her mask. Cesar, on the other hand, was smiling. A sly, almost scary smiled marred his face as he lifted Sloane's oxygen mask away.

"Do you feel death?" Cesar asked softly, leaning over the laboriously breathing man. "Do you feel its icy grip closing in on you, Arvin Sloane? Does it feel like fate? Does it feel like God's final retribution for your wicked, evil life?"

"I always knew it would be you," Sloane whispered his voice barely audible to Sydney, who was standing a few feet away."

Cesar smiled. "That's right, old man. It was always going to be me that killed you."

It was soft, but unmistakable. Arvin Sloane laughed. The gesture was not missed by Cesar, whose face grew stormy with rage.

"Not you. Her."

Sydney, who had been watching out of the corner of her eye, turned slowly to face Sloane.

"Come, Sydney, take off that mask and let me see your face."

Sydney moved, seemingly, in slow motion, her legs feeling leaden and sluggish. She stood above her pale former boss and removed her mask, letting it fall to the dirty floor.

"Why now, Sydney?" Sloane asked weakly. "Nadia is not yet cold in her grave and you already seek to strike me down?"

"She would not be in her grave if it weren't for you," Sydney said quietly. Her voice grew more vehement as she spoke. "Neither would Danny. Neither would Emily. Neither would _a lot_ of people."

Sloane had the decency to look ashamed.

"You must know that if I could have done it all over again, I would have done it differently."

Sydney let out a mirthless laugh.

"No, you wouldn't have. You know you wouldn't. You did it your way and for you that's the only way it could be done. And now, we're here to make sure you never hurt anyone else like that again."

She heard Cesar load a magazine into his gun. The delicate, metallic sound of a silencer being attached to its end seemed magnified in the finite silence surrounding them.

"Sydney, there's something I need to tell you," Sloane said urgently.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Sydney's head spun to her temporary compatriot as Cesar spat at Sloane, topping the gun with the silencer.

"Sydney, it's about your parents. I know they've been kidnapped."

Sydney's head spun back to Sloane, her eyes wide.

"What?"

"I know they've been kidnapped by someone named The Messenger. Sydney, I was being blackmailed as well, but Nadia passed away before I could hold up my end of the bargain. I was close to closing in on the Messenger's identity –"

"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!" Cesar screamed at Sloane and cocked the pistol. He shoved the barrel against Sloane's temple and looked at Sydney intensely.

"Sydney, everything this man says is _lies_. You above all else should know this. You can't listen to him. We need to end this. Now."

"Cesar, wait," Sydney said calmly, her head pounding. "Just give me a few minutes with him. I need to know what he's saying."

"He's manipulating you!" Cesar yelled at her. "No fucking wonder you had no idea SD-6 wasn't CIA for so fucking long! You are so easily swayed by someone telling you they know something about your precious family you let this murderer distract you from what you're really here to do? He needs to die and he needs to die right now."

"Cesar, you're making a mistake. I just need five minutes –"

"I'll give you to the count of three," Cesar said coldly.

"One"

"Sydney, the Messenger told me he could save Nadia. I just wanted my baby alive –"

"Two."

"Cesar, you can't do this. I need him."

"Three."

Sydney lunged at Cesar. She tackled him, knocking the firearm from his hand. The pistol skidded a few feet away, evening the playing field. Cesar recovered quickly from Sydney's attack and threw her off of himself. She quickly countered with a sweeping roundhouse kick, knocking him off his feet. Sydney lunged for the gun, but Cesar grabbed her ankle, pulling her down to the ground and knocking her face against the concrete. Sydney's head pounded, aching, as she tried to recover.

Cesar recovered first, standing quickly and kicking Sydney in the stomach. Sydney coughed as the wind was knocked out of her but reached out as Cesar went to kick her again and twisted his foot sideways, ceasing his relentless kicking. He fell to the side as Sydney pushed herself up. She cursed the billowing skirt she had to wear and hiked it up, kicking Cesar in the jaw as he lay on the ground. Sydney went to make a grab for the gun, but Cesar grabbed the long hem of the dress and yanked her back. He launched himself at it as Sydney fell, she knew she had lost.

Cesar loomed above her, his mouth bleeding from where her heel had made contact with it. He pointed the gun at her face, a sad but decisive look on his face.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Sydney," Cesar said, the reluctance in his voice fading into finality. "But you lost the faith."

Sydney heard the gunshot before she felt it and she closed her eyes, knowing it would only take seconds for her to die. When the pain didn't come she opened her eyes.

Dark crimson blood spread quickly across Cesar's white, pristine paramedic uniform. The gun he held dropped harmlessly to his feet as his hands went to his chest, touching the life fluid that flowed so freely out of him. He sank to his knees, his breathing labored.

And there, stepping out of the shadows was the gunman. Sydney had a hard time seeing him at first…it felt like her vision was becoming blurry. She saw him as he stepped forward, his jacket shimmering blue in the dim light. He was still wearing his red mask from the party: her mystery dancer.

"What have you done?" Sydney shouted at the man, kneeling next to Cesar, trying to put pressure on his wound. The wounded man's breathing sounded was labored and rattling, the blood already pooling in his lungs.

"I saved your life," the man said, dropping his Cajun accent and removing his mask. "I thought maybe you had more to live for."

"You?" Sydney asked him, feeling grief, fear, and relief grip at her throat to the point where she could barely say anything at all.

"Me," Sark replied, letting the gun fall to his side. She looked beautiful in that shining, ridiculous looking dress. He wanted to tell her that, but he knew it was only because he was beginning to fade into the darkness and strange, abnormal thoughts were flitting across his brain.

"Why?" Sydney asked, watching the vein in Cesar's neck pulse slower and slower. Her hands were slick with blood and she felt she could do nothing to slow his descent into death. It could have been her on the ground, the gun had been pointing right at her. It should have been her, if it wasn't for _him_.

"Remember when I told you 'come back in one piece or don't come back at all'?" Sark asked in a strange voice. He was leaning against the wall now, his head in his hand. "I just wanted you to come back, that's all."

"Sydney," Cesar gurgled, and Sydney turned her attention back to her would-be killer. "I just miss her so much…"

"Shh…I know," Sydney told him, not sure why she was comforting the man who had almost taken her life.

"I just miss her so…" Cesar whispered, the wetness in his breathing loud and slowing.

"We have to get him to a hospital," Sydney told Sark, her head spinning. "He might live."

"You know he won't," Sark said coldly, and Sydney knew he was right.

"We can at least try!" She yelled, with as much strength as she had left.

"No," Sark said moving slowly over to where she knelt. "He was going to kill you. Then he was going to kill Sloane. You heard what he said…he was being blackmailed as well. I know Sloane is a liar but I'm willing to delay his death long enough to listen to him."

Sark shut his eyes tight, as if he listening intently or if he were…

"Sark, are you alright?" Sydney asked, her own head feeling strangely fuzzy.

"I don't know," Sark murmured. "It's different tonight. Coming on slowly. I think…I think I might be in trouble, Sydney."

He sank suddenly to his knees beside her and she went to him, placing Cesar's head softly on the ground. The pounding in her head grew harder and harder for her to ignore. It beat steadily, increasing in pressure and pain. She couldn't even see Sark clearly anymore.

As she crawled to him, reaching her hand out for him, the world exploded.

Pain. Hot, insistent, unrelenting pain engulfed Sydney. It was if her head and blown apart but it couldn't be because she could still feel pain, she could still feel Sark's hand reaching for hers, squeezing it. She pried her eyes open and she could see him, on the ground, writhing. Whatever he had, whatever had brought down this great warrior…she had it now.

"What…have…you…done…to…me?" Sydney asked piteously. She thought she saw something in his face beyond pain in that second. Fear? Regret? She couldn't tell because a fresh wave of pain rolled over her. She could hear Sloane calling to her, saying her name over and over, but he was getting farther away now.

And so they lay on the cold, hard floor, the four of them wondering who Death would come for first.

* * *

Just a quick note before the soundtrack. The Labyrinth of Jareth Masquerade Ball is a real event that I have borrowed for fictional purposes. I have never been to it but it looks freaking amazing. It is based off the Jim Henson movie from the 80's "Labyrinth". I love the movie "Labyrinth". I love David Bowie. I love his super tight pants and awesome punk hair and wish I were Jennifer Connelly and that the Goblin King would come take me away…right now. Sydney and Sark wear similar clothes at the ball that Jareth and Sarah wear, but less dated and 80's-ish, if you catch what I'm throwing at you.

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Ten

1. Maria Taylor, "Clean Getaway". **Listen to When:** Sydney takes Cesar's phone call and then leaves.

Lyrics: _I met someone at the bar.  
He had a great smile and a great heart.  
He felt just like love.  
Except no fear of losing, and it wasn't tough._

I finally made it.  
I made a clean getaway.  
I finally made it.  
I made a clean getaway.  
And I miss you,  
I miss you every single day.

2. Black Box Recorder, "England Made Me". **Listen to When:** Irina calls Sark.

Lyrics: _I need my privacy, I lead a secret life  
Sleep with the enemy and then betray both sides  
I travelled all my life but never got away  
From the killing job and the garden shed_

England made me  
England made me  
England made me  
England made me  
England made me  
England made me  
(I called to say: I love you, I love you, I love you)  
England made me

3. The Last Town Chorus, "Modern Love". **Listen to When:** Sydney and Cesar meet at the cemetery.

Lyrics: _Never gonna fall for  
Modern Love walks beside me  
Modern Love walks on by  
Modern Love gets me to the Church on Time  
Church on Time terrifies me  
Church on Time makes me party  
Church on Time puts my trust in God and Man  
God and Man no confessions  
God and Man no religion  
God and Man don't believe  
in Modern Love_

4. The Perishers, "Like I Will Miss You". **Listen to When:** Sark digs up Michael Vaughn's grave.

Lyrics: _You helped them to kill me  
That's all that I'm willing to say  
You no longer thrill me  
All you do now is stand in my way  
And all they say, makes me feel just as if  
I have lost everything that I own  
All they say makes me awfully blue and alone_

5. Roisin Murphy, "Ramalama (Bang Bang)". **Listen to When:** Sydney goes to the Masquerade Ball.

Lyrics: _Could a body close the mind out?  
Stitch a seam across the eye?  
If you can be good, you'll live forever  
If you're bad, you'll die when you die_

Hearing only one true note  
On the one and only sound  
Unzip my body  
Take my heart out  
Cause I need a beat to give this tune

6. Muse, "Butterflies and Hurricanes". **Listen to When:** Sydney, Cesar, Sloane arrive at the warehouse until the end of the chapter.

Lyrics: _Change everything you are  
And everything you were  
Your number has been called_

Fights and battles have begun  
Revenge will surely come  
Your hard times are ahead

Best, you've got to be the best  
You've got to change the world  
And use this chance to be heard  
Your time is now


	17. Chapter 11, Part 1

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** R, currently, for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Happy Halloween, everyone! I know I say this every time, but I really think you're going to enjoy this chapter. Halloween shenanigans abound for Sydney and Sark, we get to visit with an old friend, and we visit a beautiful, foreign city that I personally hold near and dear to my heart as a diehard Sarkney fan. A longer "Author's Note" can be found at the end of part 2, right above the soundtrack, so don't forget to check that out. As always, I hope not to disappoint with this chapter! Enjoy!

* * *

There was no comfort in the darkness for Sark. He was constantly haunted when the sickness took over. After one of his "episodes", he's feel that the torture he'd endured during (the murderous memories he had committed, the dark fantasies that had yet to come to pass, and the fleeting bouts of clarity where he could see himself doing things not of this own volition) were payback for a wicked life lived. He could and would always justify his actions and decisions in the heat of the moment, when the adrenalin and payoff were high. But in his dreams, when the sickness took over, he knew the nightmares were his ultimate payback.

It was different for Sydney. Where Sark's inner demons finally came out to torture him for his past crimes, Sydney found only blessed, unfeeling darkness in the sickness that finally consumed her. The fugue states were different than the times she had merely been knocked unconscious. If someone had taken the butt of a gun to her temple or given her a shot of something to make her fall asleep, the pain and the feelings were still there, blurred and muddled, as if she were looking at them through wax paper. While knocked unconscious, her mind could roam free. Nadia, Francie, and Danny would still be alive while unconscious. Her mother wouldn't be a Rambaldi zealot and would still be happily married to her father, who actually worked at Jennings Aerospace.

But when the sickness took her over for the first time, it was complete and utter nothingness. Nadia, Francie, and Danny weren't alive; they didn't exist. Vaughn didn't exist. The baby she had loved and lost didn't exist. Sark and his soft lips and sure hands did not exist. Sydney didn't exist. She was nothing. It was the sweet release of death with the steady beat of her heart never slowing, never stopping. Surely this was heaven, where feelings and sorrow could not touch her.

_But if this were heaven_, Sydney's sluggish brain rationalized, _why would my hands be moving?_

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Sydney's mind stirred. She didn't like it. The emotional part of her longed for the unfeeling blackness that had moved into her mind so swiftly and so mercifully. But there it was again, the annoying, rational lobe pulsing again, causing electrons to fire across brain, making her wonder why her hands were moving, why her fingertips brushed thick stacks of paper, why voices seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and where her eyes seemed to be working for the first time.

_No_, she thought, willing the soothing blindness to return, but it was too late. Sydney's innate workings to combat forces invading her mind pulled through and it as if someone had flicked on a light switch.

She wasn't lying on the floor of a dirty, abandoned warehouse. Sark was no lying next to her in that ridiculous, spangled blue suit, reaching out to hold her hand. Cesar was not dying, the gunshot wound inflicted on him by Sark taking his life. Sloane was not lying on a gurney, his heart weakening and slowing with the toxin she had slipped into his drink.

Looking down at herself, Sydney saw she wasn't wearing the gaudy, albeit gorgeous, white gown from the Goblin's Masquerade Ball. She was wearing a blue gingham dress, white shirt, and red sparkly shoes. Reaching up, she felt that her hair was in pigtails. And clenched between her hands were thick, green wads of cash.

"Jesus, I'm Dorothy," Sydney whispered disbelievingly.

"I'm the Tin Man, not Jesus," said a man Sydney had not noticed standing right in front of her. Sure enough, he was the Tin Man, dressed in the robot-like suit with secret compartments that Sydney was stuffing with cash. Realizing what she was doing, Sydney stopped and stared incredulously at the man.

"Are you alright, Dorothy?" The Tin Man asked. It was a normal enough question but Sydney saw, now that she was properly looking at the man, that his question was a purely reactionary response to her halting her action. No recognition of what the phrase meant shone in his features. His voice was mechanical, his movements robotic, neither of which having to do with his current costume.

As disconcerting as the man's tone and demeanor was, it was his eyes that gave Sydney pause. She'd seen that same, dead-behind-the-eyes look in Sark. There was a moment from the episode he'd had in the German medical facility when she had left his bedside for a quick shower and found him out of bed and leaving the house. She's cornered him and he'd looked at her with the same dead eyes this man was currently staring at her with. No recognition, no understanding, nothing. Sark had woken up from the daze a few seconds later, but in those tense few moments, there was nothing left of Sark in that body. He had been an empty husk of a man being controlled by…_what_? Or who?

"No," Sydney finally answered the Tin Man, a dark-skinned, handsome man with a faint southern accent. Her head was clearing. Questions filled her once hazy mind. "I am not alright. What is your name? What are we doing here? Do you know who the Messenger is? Do you work for Arvin Sloane?"

"She's asking too many questions," said a voice from across the room. Sydney's head whirled to face the voice, feeling like she shouldn't' be surprised to see a man with a heavily pockmarked face dressed as the Cowardly Lion addressing her tonelessly. "Her training could be faulty. Leader said that could prove to be a problem." He was soldering a small panel in the wall, but as he turned to face her, it was his glazed over eyes that gave him away. He had the sickness, too.

"Do not divert from the mission," the Lion intoned, as if reading from a script. He motioned to a man sitting at a nearby computer, appropriately dressed as the Scarecrow. He was a skinny man with a large Adam's apple and a pale face, his dead eyes bathed in a blue glow from the laptop.

"What's the mission?" Sydney asked, hoping her straightforward question would be met with similarly straightforward response. She set the wads of cash on a nearby counter. The scar-faced Lion took in her work stoppage.

"Do not divert from the mission or I will be forced to assume your wiring is faulty," he repeated, turning his eyes from the wall panel and fixing her with his deadened stare.

"Listen," Sydney said steadily, trying not to raise any of their alarms. She looked each Oz character in their eyes in turn, hoping to connect with some bit of humanity still left inside of them. "My name is Sydney Bristow. I work…worked from the CIA. Do you know your names? Do you know your boss's name?"

"She is diverting from the mission," the scar-faced Lion deadpanned. "She is a defector. Scarecrow…terminate her."

Lion turned back to his worked as the large-nosed Scarecrow stood from his computer and reached into a bag next to it. He pulled out a pistol and held it while he rummaged around in the bag some more.

"Listen to me," Sydney said firmly, staring into the Scarecrow's lifeless eyes. "You are a real person. You are more than just a body, just a mission. You have a name. You have a family. You can snap yourself out of this."

The Scarecrow pulled a silencer out of his bag and began to screw it onto the gun.

"Someone out there is wondering where you are," Sydney said with feeling, her hands raised above her head in surrender. "Someone out there loves you. They're waiting for you to come home. Please, put down the gun."

Sydney looked desperately around for a way out, or for something to use as a weapon. They were in a plain, nondescript office with a safe in the wall and the only furniture in the room was the chair and desk the Scarecrow's had just vacated. The door sat closed behind the Lion's large, fluffy form. She was trapped.

Sydney did the only thing she could think of. She slapped the Scarecrow.

"Look at me!" Sydney yelled at him, hoping to distract him long enough to bring him out of his stupor or take his gun away. She ignored the two other men that had temporarily halted their tasks. The Scarecrow stood motionless, staring at Sydney.

"There is someone who loves you out there. Someone is waiting for you to come home. Forget about what's happening in this room. Think about what's happening out _there_…without you."

The Scarecrow didn't move, but he didn't shoot her either. Maybe it was the low light playing tricks on her, but she thought she was something flicker behind the man's eyes. Sydney took advantage of it and quickly knocked the gun out of the Scarecrow's hand, picking it up and waving it at the others to stay back. She turned back to the Scarecrow.

"Think," she addressed him softly, still keeping an eye on the others. "Who is waiting for you? Who is wishing that you'd come home?"

The man's large Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed deliberately. Sydney saw beads of sweat forming around his face, making his costume makeup bleed. His eyes were moving back and forth between reluctant Dorothy, the black Tin Man, and the pockmarked Cowardly Lion.

She slapped him again.

"Wake up!' She yelled in his face. Life flooded back to the Scarecrow's eyes.

"Sarah," the man croaked, as if he hadn't used his voice in a long time. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Sydney waved the gun at the others, motioning them to keep back.

"I'm Sydney," Sydney said slowly, in case the man hadn't heard her before. "Who are you?"

"No, Sarah," the man repeated, looking desperate now. He looked around quickly at the others before settling on Sydney again. "I was driving my six year old to school and that's the last thing I remember," the man said, on the verge of tears. "Sarah, my precious Sarah. Jesus, what happened? What have I done?"

"Do not divert from the mission," the scarred Lion said again, turning from his wall panel and taking a step closer to Sydney and Scarecrow.

"You. Stay the fuck back," Sydney told the Lion, pointing the gun at him.

"What the hell is going on here?" The scarecrow asked, the reality of the situation fully dawning him. He tried to pull himself up but faltered, the strength leeching out of him. Sydney could see now that he was significantly weakened by the sickness, as Sark has been. _Why hadn't see been affected as badly?_

"They are both defecting," the Lion deadpanned. He turned to the Tin Man. "Terminate them."

The Tin Man leapt for the gun, but Sydney quickly ducked and moved, sending the man flying with a sturdy kick to his shiny, metallic groin. She pointed the gun between the two men still under the veil of the sickness, hoping there was enough human left inside of them to realize she would shoot them if they came closer. She doubted they could fathom how close they were to death. She turned to the Scarecrow, who had turned his head and vomited spectacularly on to an expensive-looking oriental rug. He was looking decidedly worse for wear.

"Scarecrow and I are going to leave," Sydney said steadily. She plucked a few bills from the wads of cash she had been pilfering and stuffed them into her bag which, of course, was black, furry, and dog-shaped.

"You two will continue as you see fit." Sydney reached down and threw the Scarecrow's arm over her shoulder to steady him. She briefly considered what she should do with the other two men. She could incapacitate them. Shoot them both in their kneecaps and call the police. But underneath she knew that they were probably just like her, just like Scarecrow, just like Sark, not knowing what they were doing. They could snap out of their fugue states and not know what they had done wrong and be sent away to prison, or even killed, for someone else's crimes they had been forced to commit.

Sydney also considered trying to wake them up as she had done with Scarecrow. Unfortunately, she knew she didn't have the time or strength to do this. One half-conscious person she could lug around, but three? Sydney knew impossibility when she saw one.

There was a third option. Probably the most humane, but Sydney couldn't, wouldn't, bring herself to do it. They would have killed her given the chance, she knew this. She could not justify in killing them. She would just have to hope they would one day wake up from the sickness…or perhaps it would be better if they never woke up at all.

"Sorry guys," Sydney said, shooting them both in the shoulder. Both men reached up to quell the flow of blood but their expressions never changed. _They'd be fine, they were only flesh wounds,_Sydney rationalized to herself. It would slow them down and hopefully dissuade them from following the two of them or continuing their mission.

"Please," the Scarecrow groaned, his eyelids fluttering. "I need to go…Sarah…"

"Ok, ok," Sydney breathed, still pointing the gun at the two other men. Dorothy and the Scarecrow backed out of the room, leaving their compatriots of unknown intent behind them.

They climbed a set of stairs, the Scarecrow leaning heavily on Sydney the entire time. Soon, Sydney began to hear the mixed rumblings of music and laughter. Pushing through one last door, the two Oz characters stumbled into what appeared to be an office Halloween party. _But Halloween isn't for another couple of days,_ Sydney thought to herself. A sinking feeling trickled through Sydney as she peeked into a nearby cubicle and looked at the clock and calendar.

5:30 p.m. October 30th. The day before Halloween. She had lost four days. Four. Fucking. Days. She couldn't believe it. _Wouldn't_ believe it. How was it possible to lose four days of your life and not remember?

_It's just as possible to lose four days as it is to lose two years,_ Sydney's mind shot back at her. If there were forces out there with the ability to rob her of years of her life, why did it suddenly seem so impossible to lose days? And if she was here…wherever here was…where was Sark? Sydney suddenly felt the overwhelming void of his absence. She saw with her own eyes what the sickness could do…what it and he was now capable of. He could be anywhere, doing anything, and she had no way to contact him, to find him. No way to snap him out of his fugue state and he could be out there killing…or being killed.

"Looks like someone had a little too much Witch's Brew Punch, if you ask me," a man dressed as the back half of a horse said to Sydney, walking up to Sydney and conspiratorially jabbing her with his elbow. He squinted at the Scarecrow. "Is that Dave from accounting?"

"Actually, its one of the CEO's," Sydney whispered, thinking fast. "There's 50 bucks in it for you if you call us a cab and keep quiet about all of this. Mr. Scarecrow here is a very prominent figurehead at our company and it would look very bad for everyone if this little incident got out."

The man nodded his head vigorously, excited to be trusted with an important task. Within minutes a cab pulled up outside the office building and Sydney had greased the palm of the horse's ass turned co-conspirator.

The Scarecrow had tried convincing Sydney and the taxi driver to take him to the nearest airport, which Sydney had been surprised to discover, was LAX. She overrode him, instructing the cabbie to take them to the hospital instead. During the ride, she found out his name was Miles Shapiro and he was an FBI agent for ten years before giving up the job for a quieter life as a school teacher in rural Montana. She told him all she knew about the sickness and how he'd grow weaker before he grew stronger.

"The hospital will take care of you," Sydney assured, not exactly positive this was true. "They'll help you find out what happened to your daughter. I'm sure she's fine." Both she and Miles knew this might not be true, but neither of them voiced this possibility. He was in and out of consciousness anyway and Sydney didn't want to stress his system more than it already was.

Sydney told the cab to wait for her as she dropped Miles off at the emergency room. She didn't give her name or wait around to give any specifics and made sure to keep her face averted from any of the hospital's cameras. It was easier that way.

Back in the cab, she felt she finally had time to think. What she didn't have was resources. She had only nabbed a few hundred bucks from the Tin Man, enough to rent a car or grab a flight back to Phoenix but certainly not enough to figure out a way to track Sark down. The cabbie said he and most other taxi's would only go as far as San Diego, and that would cost as much as she had. The worst thing was that she didn't have an I.D., making buying a flight or renting a car an impossibility. She could steal a car, yes, but at this point she didn't know who or if anything was tracking her and there'd be no defense for her if she got caught before she made it to her house in Arizona.

Sydney asked the cab driver to stop at the Westside Pavilion Mall, where she picked up some civilian clothes and a trackphone. She tried calling Sark's phone but as she predicted, an operator informed her that the number was no longer in service.

As she considered what the implication of this inability to contact Sark meant, another idea worked its way into her mind and wouldn't be shaken loose. She knew it wouldn't be the smartest thing she could do, and felt guilty even considering it, but right now, she felt it was her only possibility.

Sydney sat on a bench outside the food court for twenty minutes before she worked up the nerve to call the other person she had considered. She punched in the numbers that had lain long unused and dormant in her mind and waited for the one person who could help her to pick up.

* * *

Marshall Flinkman was just a half a bar away from leveling to 70 with his Blood Elf Paladin. He and his motley group of Horde players were running Karazhan and he was wondering, as his Paladin swung his claymore of unholy light at a vampiric concubine, how much trouble he could get in if anyone at APO he was playing World of Warcraft at work.

He was running a check on the new firewall that had been implemented this week and there was nothing to do other than wait for it to be finished, which would take another two hours, at least. He didn't want Director Chase to think he was shirking his responsibilities but he had finished putting together the infrared scope in the shell of a Montblanc pen for Agent Dixon three hours ago and had no other work to do. Carrie had told him not to worry about dinner and to just pick something up for himself on his way home from work, so there was nothing left to do but wait. And why wait in silence when you could be killing vampiric concubines?

He liked Director Chase very much, much better than Sloane (even though that wasn't saying much) and didn't want to disappoint her, even though she hadn't worn the perfume he and Carrie had given to her for her birthday this year. Not that he had gone around smelling her or anything. That would have been weird. Maybe she wore it at home or on special occasions. Maybe she didn't like it at all even though she had said she had. Carrie had helped him pick it out (he told her it was for Mr. Heatherington's wife's birthday) and even though his beautiful wife had stressed that perfume might be too intimate a gift to give your boss's wife Marshall had convinced her to help because Director Chase was a classy lady and classy ladies needed classy perfume…not that she didn't smell classy as she was. Not that he was smelling her on a regular basis. Because, again, that would be weird.

The tank in Marshall's group was leading them into the Opera House in Karazhan when he heard a buzzing. Puzzled, he pulled off his headset speaker, into which we was barking orders to his WoW group. He shook the headphones, thinking it had been malfunctioning, but there it was again, a muted buzzing noise, somewhere in his office. He quickly typed into the group chat window, "BRB, potty break," and began shuffling through the frayed wires, crumpled papers, and shiny metal bits that littered his workspace.

There. Right between the necklace turned hypnosis-enabler and a tuxedo jacket that could be turned into an inflatable raft that could seat four was something that appeared to be a simple hiker's boot. Like all of Marshall's toys it did not simply do the most obvious, such as in this case, encase someone's foot. It had been a communicator between himself and Sydney Bristow on a mission in the Black Forest in Germany but they had only used it that once.

_Sydney._ Marshall's heart ached with sadness. Poor Sydney. She had been dealt so many hardships; it just wasn't fair for someone so great. He missed her dreadfully still, even though it had been weeks since Nadia's funeral and months since she'd worked at APO. She had been his first friend at SD-6 and for some time he thought he had been half in love with her. Looking back, he thinks it was because she was so beautiful and also so terribly nice and polite to him that he confused it with love. But even now, knowing what true love was, he still missed seeing her everyday. Work wasn't the same without Sydney Bristow; the rooms and hallways seemed a bit darker without her there.

But here he was, more than a year later after that mission, and the boot Sydney Bristow had used buzzed at him, waiting to be answered. He held the shoe up to his ear and pressed the small logo on the side and the buzzing stopped.

"Uh…Marshall's shoe phone, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Marshall." Sydney's voice was hesitant and unsure in Marshall's ear.

"Sydney!" Marshall's exclamation was exuberant at hearing his friend's voice again. "Wow. Hi. I can't believe you remembered the shoe phone number! I'm talking into a shoe, you know. Not that I mind because I'm talking to you but you remember we have actual phones here at APO, right? Uh…," Marshall realized he was rambling. "To what pleasure do I owe this call to my footwear phone?"

"The pleasure is all mine," Sydney said sincerely and Marshall grinned. Sydney paused. "I called the hiking boot phone because, well, I want as little people to know about what I'm doing as possible and you know how track all the phone calls at APO. I wish I could say I was simply calling to catch up, but…I need your help."

Marshall stood up straighter, as if Sydney could somehow see his determination through his stance.

"I would do anything to help you, Syd. Just ask away."

"Simple things first. I need papers. I.D., passport, you know, the works."

"Sydney, that isn't even challenging. Any preference on the name?"

"Nope. Go crazy."

"Ok, Angelina Von Chestenmeier it is. What else can I help you with?"

"Well…," Sydney's voice stretched in Marshall's ear. "What I need, I can't really explain why I need it, but it might be difficult, especially since I don't have much time to give you to do it."

"You've been gone way too long, Syd. You've forgotten that I can do anything."

"I need you to find Sloane," Sydney's voice then faltered, as if she couldn't bring herself to say the words. "Also, if you could, I need you to find…I need you to find Sark," she finished in a rush.

"Sark?" Marshall's voice was puzzled. Finding Sloane, Marshall could understand. He didn't want or need to know why Sydney wanted to find him. But Sark? Sark hadn't been heard of in months, at least a half a year or more. The reasons for this absence varied according to the chatter on Echelon. Some believed he was simply dead, possibly gunned down in Galway. Some believed he was simply lying low, planning something unbearable huge and destructive somewhere in Minsk. And there was that one rumor; less believed than the others that he was terminally ill, suffering greatly until his inevitable end somewhere in the Greek Isles.

Marshall hoped none of these were true. He knew Sark was diabolical, a ruthless killer and spy. He was a very scary dude and yet…he was so cool. He wasn't quite sure what made him so debonair…possibly the hair, definitely the clothes, of course it was his accent too, but…it was his attitude that made him one cool cucumber.

Marshall had eaten eggs with Sark not once but _twice_ during the two years Sark was incarcerated in CIA custody. Marshall had been nervous at first but he had been so lonely since Sydney, Dixon and Jack went to APO and next to Weiss, Sark was the only person he still recognized at his job. Sark was a (sort of) friendly face in a job that he hardly even recognized anymore without his friends.

They had talked about all kinds of stuff: technology, news, books…women. Marshall had asked Sark what women want and he had given Marshall some very smooth moves that he still used to this day. Sark had asked Marshall what Sydney Bristow was really like. Initially, Marshall thought it had been a strange question but as he explained all the wonderful things about her, it didn't surprise him. Everyone loved Sydney; even coldblooded, suave, international terrorists.

"You want to track down Sark?"

"Yes," said Sydney, her voice sounding strained event to her own ears. "His cell phone isn't connected anymore and I thought you could whip together some facial recognition software and run it through all the major cities."

"All the major cities in the United States…?"

"In the world," Sydney supplied sheepishly.

Marshall had already picked up a nearby pencil and was scribbling down formulas. Then he stopped.

"You have Sark's cell phone number?"

"Uh…," Sydney's voice faded out as she gathered her thoughts. "Listen, Marshall, this is the point in time where I reiterate that no one else can know about what I'm asking you to do here. Let me just assure you that I'm not doing anything evil and Sark might be helping me and he could be a bit M.I.A. at the moment."

"Oh really?" Marshall tried not to sound too interested. He walked over to his computer and minimized World of Warcraft, where his instance group were waiting for him, commenting on the probable severity of his bathroom exploits considering his AFK (away from keyboard) time. He pulled up his program writing files and starting tapping away at the keyboard with one hand.

"Do you…do you think you could give me his number? I mean, it's been awhile since he and I have chatted and –"

"Marshall, it's out of service. And since when do you and Sark 'chat'?"

"Um…once or twice. About…stuff. There was just something he told me that I wanted to clarify since next week I'm dropping Mitchell off at my mother's and Carrie and I are going on this romantic weekend…"

"Marshall," Sydney interrupted, sounding like she was trying not to be impatient. "Can you do this for me? It would mean a lot to me, I'm in a bit of a situation here."

Marshall smiled broadly even through Sydney couldn't see it over the phone. "Of course I can do this for you. In fact, it'll give me something to do until I can leave work. Where can you meet me?"

"Would the Westside Pavilion Mall be inconvenient?"

"No, no, no, not at all!" Marshall's fingers were a blur as he typed in the program. "How about meeting me in the food court in two hours? I'll be way hungry by then and I am jonesing for a gyro."

Sydney laughed. To Marshall it sounded like the tinkling of tiny bells. "That would be perfect. Marshall…thank you. You don't know how much this means to me."

"Aw, Syd," Marshall replied, blush creeping into his cheeks. "It's the least I can do. Can't wait to see you."

"You, too. Bye Marshall."

"Bye! See ya! Konichiwa! Auf Wiedersehen! Ciao!"

It was at that moment that Director Hayden Chase walked in and saw Marshall tapping away at the keyboard with one hand and talking into a woman's hiking shoe with the other.

"Mr. Flinkman?" Director Chase arched a single eyebrow at him and Marshall quickly looked from her to the shoe and back again.

"Uh, you're probably wondering why I'm talking into this shoe," Marshall said quickly. "Well, it's like this –"

"Nope," Director Chase said, holding up her hand. "Not even going to ask, don't want to know. Just checking to see how the firewall is going."

"Another two hours, I think," Marshall said, hoping his blush wasn't as noticeable as it felt.

"Good," Director Chase said, turning to leave. "Oh, and Mr. Flinkman?"

Marshall looked up from the computer.

"How's your Blood Elf Paladin doing? At 70 yet?"

"Uh…almost," Marshall squeaked out. He grinned guiltily.

"Well, congratulations then," she said without irony. Marshall's eyes widened and Director Chase grinned. But as quickly as the smile had appeared it disappeared and she was all business again. "Email me the results of the firewall check before you leave for the night. And if I don't see you tomorrow…Happy Halloween, Marshall. Tell Carrie and Mitchell I said the same."

"Will do," Marshall said and she left. "Wow," Marshall breathed, pulling up Sydney's program again and rapidly typing in the configurations. He felt his cheeks burning and the grin that pulled against his mouth. If it was his lot in life to be surrounded by beautiful, powerful, and intelligent women then, by God, he was the luckiest man in the world.

* * *

It only took an hour and a half until Sydney spied Marshall determinedly making his way toward her table at the food court, a laptop and manila envelope in one hand and a gyro in the other. She smiled and waved and he grinned and waved his gyro back at her. He dropped the laptop and envelope on the table and enveloped the sitting Sydney into a tight bear hug.

"Ooof," Sydney breathed as Marshall's hug took the wind out of her. "Hiya Marshall."

"It's so good to see you, Syd," Marshall said, sitting down across from her. "Oh, geez…I think I got tahini sauce on your shoulder. My bad."

"It's ok," Sydney replied, smiling and wiping the white sauce off her shirt. It was reassuring to know that some things and some people didn't change. He was the same old Marshall while she felt…broken. She hated doing this to him. "Tell me. How are Mitchell and Carrie? I wished I would have talked to her more at the funeral."

"Oh no, please, we understand. Carrie misses you, too. Not as much as I miss you, of course, but you know." Marshall grinned at her and Sydney couldn't help but grin back. His grin softened before he spoke again. "How are you doing, Syd? We all miss you and want to help but…you've been gone for such a long time now."

"I know," Sydney said, feeling tears start to sting in her eyes. "It's just…hard. And you _are_ helping me…with this." Sydney gestured to the laptop and the envelope. "If this does what I asked, you are helping me…more than you know."

"Well, in addition to the I.D. stuff in the envelope, I am very proud to present you with a very sophisticated facial recognition program," Marshall said, opening the laptop and pressing a few keys. "I must admit, I am very proud of this baby. In fact…I've already had a few hits already on our very slippery Mr. Sark."

"You have?" Sydney asked hopefully. Marshall tore his gaze from the program and stared at Sydney.

"You're not, like, after him, are you?" Marshall asked hesitantly. "He hasn't wronged you and you're going all 'Kill Bill' on his ass, right?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sydney assured him. "It's…complicated. All I can say is that we're…helping each other. I just need him," she said, not thinking. Realizing how that may sound, she quickly clarified.

"I need to _find_ him, I mean. That's all." She moved on. "What about Sloane? Any hits on him?"

"Unfortunately, no," Marshall said resignedly. "But I programmed this to track both Sark and Sloane's face using security cameras stationed throughout the world. It's working off the APO satellite but don't worry," he supplied, seeing how Sydney's face had changed to concern. "…no one will know but you and me. Our little secret."

"Wow, this is impressive," Sydney said, looking at Marshall's program. "So, he's been sighted in…Paris. Twice already."

"If he's caught on another camera, it will automatically update the program with the coordinates," Marshall said, biting into his gyro.

"Marshall, this is great, I can't thank you enough," Sydney said, blessing Marshall with one of those patented Sydney Bristow grins that would blow any guy away. He blushed and tried to swallow the large bit of lamb still caught in his throat.

"Aw, I just wish I could do more," he said, truly meaning it. She looked at him and he finally saw it: the sadness hiding there, just below the surface. Marshall hated whoever put that new sadness there, when she already had suffered so much. If it was Sloane, then…he hoped she killed him. Marshall hadn't ever wished death on someone before but if it was Sloane behind this latest tragedy of Sydney's then…Marshall would be glad he had helped her kill him in his own small way. It hurt to think that but it was true, so very, very true.

"As much as I'd love to stay and catch up," Sydney said regretfully. "…time is of the essence. And I'm sure I'm keeping you from your family."

"Mitchell does like it when I read to him before he goes to sleep," Marshall says wistfully. "I've been reading him the Harry Potter series. I know he doesn't understand it yet, but, I love Harry Potter and it gives me an excuse to read it without Carrie making fun of me."

"Marshall," Sydney started, and Marshall thought she might cry. She quickly put a smile on her face and Marshall smiled back even though he knew she was smiling simply to keep the tears at bay. She stood and picked up the laptop and envelope and he quickly followed suit. "Thank you. I miss you already."

"I miss you, too, Syd. Take care of yourself." He smiled a half-smile, knowing she wouldn't be taking care of herself at all. He really wished she would. He wished she didn't have to fight anyone ever again. But even Marshall Flinkman knew that the world was not that kind.

She waved at him and turned away and Marshall wondered when and if he'd see her again. He wished he would with all his heart. The world was not a kind place but surely it was not so cruel as to bring another blow against Sydney Bristow. He was sending positive thoughts her way as he finished his gyro and threw the wrapper away. He couldn't wait to get back to his family.

* * *


	18. Chapter 11, Part 2

**Title:** Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author:** waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating:** HARD R **(NOTE THE RATING CHANGE)**, for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings:** Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline:** Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary:** After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note:** Blah, blah, blah, I talk too much anyway. Read the chapter!

* * *

There were no clouds marring the full moon on the night of Halloween in Paris. It was cold, beautiful and bright, reminding Sydney of the person she had flown halfway across the world to find.

She didn't have a plan, exactly. After she had left Marshall at the mall, she had booked a flight to Paris. Upon arriving, there was nothing to do but wait. There had been nothing alerting her of Sloane's presence in the world and while she was determined to find if he had died or not, she had to make Sark her priority. He was the only one she had a fix on and…_she missed him_.

There was no point denying it. She might not be able to identify precisely _why_ she missed him, but now that he was out there, doing who knows what and not next to her when she could keep an eye on him, she felt…bereft.

There was also the fear. A fear that he was out there, hurting people, killing people. But also, the increasingly more persistent fear that someone was hurting or killing _him_. So when the program had finally pinged again, informing Sydney of Sark's location, she had armed herself, physically and as emotionally as she could, to what she would find when she found him.

There was no mistaking his face looking up at the camera outside the Denfert-Rochereau metro station. But now, as she stood outside the metro station, she felt lost. He couldn't be in the metro station…there was a camera there. Not down the road…she was on a street where it dead-ended so the camera outside the police station down the way would have caught him.

Sydney stood and blew hot air into her hands and rubbed them together. It was so damn cold already and she felt the chill creeping up her spine, bringing her down, filling her head with thoughts of hopelessness. She was about to turn around and head back to the hotel and wait for the program to update itself again when she noticed a black, unassuming door with gold lettering across it.

_Entrée Des Catacombes._ Entrance to the Catacombs. Sydney knew of the catacombs, tunnels winding under the streets of Paris, lined with the bones of millions of French corpses that were moved from the cemeteries when bodies started outnumbering graves. As surely as the door stood in front of her, Sydney knew that's where Sark was.

"Are you here for the party?" a deep, male voice whispered in French in her ear. Sydney did not give the man the satisfaction of knowing he had startled her. She turned to face him, having to look up because he was so much taller than she. With his tousled black hair, flawless skin, and beautiful almond shaped eyes, he could have been a rock star or male model. He nodded toward the door of the catacombs.

"Of course," she replied in French, smiling seductively. The attractive, Asian man appraised her up and down.

"You're not dressed like the others," he remarked, holding out his arm for her. Sydney looked down at her utilitarian outfit: gray, slim fit pants encased in knee-high black boots, a black sweater underneath a black pea coat. She shrugged at her new companion.

"I don't conform to the expectations of others," she replied smugly. He chuckled, showing off his teeth…and his fangs. Sydney had almost forgotten it was Halloween.

"I am Gabriel," the man said, tucking Sydney's arm into his.

"Angelina," Sydney replied, safely going with the identity Marshall had given her.

"You're American, am I right? You speak French very well," Gabriel complimented her, pushing the door open and leading her down a dark, stone, spiraling staircase.

"I have been to France a few times," Sydney said truthfully. Only now, as she descended the staircase into the tunnel leading to the tombs, did she realize she was in the city where she and Sark had first met face to face. He had been so young and ruthless and she so confident and cool. She had known even then, in those few seconds she had approached him and put her hand possessively over his chest and cheek, how attracted he had been to her. Would he still feel it; that unmistakable and unexplained attraction to her when she found him somewhere down amongst the disinterred bodies below? Would she be able to find him underneath the sickness? Or would he be lost to her, to the world, forever?

Sydney heard the crunch of rocks under her feet and felt the dampness in the stale air underground. Music pulsed around her from somewhere up ahead, echoing and thumping in the small enclosed space. Gabriel led her down the rough, stone tunnel to four roughly hewn stone pillars. They pressed forward through the entranceway and Sydney found herself surrounded by flesh and bone.

It was not the bones that made Sydney's eyes go wide. Lining the tunnel were millions upon millions of femurs, skills, jaws and fingers, devoid of flesh and life, stacked artfully around her. The bodies of millions surrounded her with intricate patterns, as if they were some elaborate piece of art instead of the final resting place of mothers, fathers, brothers, and daughters.

No, it was the flesh that unnerved her. Women, some bare breasted with blood dripping from their mouths down their bodies undulated in writhed in time with the music. Men had their mouths on the women and sometimes on the other men. Some were shirtless despite the cold and most were grinding and biting. They all had fangs.

Sydney felt Gabriel's breath on her neck, taking in the scent of her.

"See what I said about being overdressed?" Gabriel whispered in her ear. She felt his hands slide up her frame to her throat, caressing it lightly as if something precious lived inside. "Let me see you…all of you."

"I think I'd like to look around first," Sydney said, averting her eyes and stepping away from him. She surveyed the crowd, trying to see past the nakedness. "I like to keep my options open." Already a woman crept up behind Gabriel and started wrapping her limbs around him, licking the side of his face.

"I'll still be here when you come back," he promised, turning his attention to the small, blond woman. She licked one of his fangs and Sydney had to look away. Somewhere a strobe light throbbed like blood under the skin, sending the couples, threesomes, and foursomes into harsh light and then total darkness, causing the skulls in the wall to wink and smile in the pulsation.

Sydney pushed by them, feeling her way down the tunnel wall, her hands closing around eye arms and fingertips, some alive, some not. She blinked against the harsh blinking light, hearing the sounds of passion around her, trying to block it out. People tugged on her coat, put their fingers through her hair, and whispered in her ear. There was blood everywhere. She didn't know if it was real or not but she could feel it on her, sticky and wet, and she felt like the tunnel was getting smaller, closing in on her. Sydney turned and only saw bodies and death, blocking her. She was having trouble breathing now and she covered her mouth, but there was blood on her hands too. She felt bodies pressing in on her and the bones crushing her and then there was a hand, a steady, sure hand pulling her, taking her away from the crushing hands and cloying blood.

"You looked afraid, love," a voice whispered in Sydney's ear. It was so soft and gentle, she wasn't sure she heard it over the din of sex and music. "Are you afraid?"

She turned to face him, her savior, and it was like looking into the face of an angel. Where the people around her playacted their deathly pallor and dead eyes, he _was_ the fallen one, the most stunning angel called Tempter and Son of Morning. Sark was beautiful and deadly and nowhere inside the man the stood before her. It was him to be sure, his eyes brighter against the new pallor of his face but as soon as he spoke she knew the sickness had taken hold of his body and taken his mind hostage.

Sydney couldn't help herself.

"Sark," she breathed in relief, impulsively pulling him toward her and wrapping her arms around him in an embrace; something she had never voluntarily done before now. She knew he wasn't in the body she was holding but willed his to recognize hers as she pressed him against her. She felt him stiffen.

"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else," Sark said, pushing her away gently. "My name is Caleb Abaddon. I'd very much like to be this…Sark," Sark said, without a trace of irony. "…to be pulled and held close to someone as beautiful as you." He grinned, exposing his fangs. Sydney suddenly was assaulted by the strange thought of what a shame it was, to be distracted by fake fangs when Sark had such nice teeth as it was.

Sydney pulled roughly at the lapels of his white shirt, which was unbuttoned, exposing the skin and lean muscle beneath.

"You know who I am," Sydney said, staring into his eyes. "I'm Sydney Bristow. You know who you are."

"I know you smell…amazing," Sark said, leaning toward her and letting his fingers trail through her hair, bring a tendril to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Orange and spice…delicious."

"Sark," she said, repeating his name, hoping it might strike a chord. "I don't know why you were sent here but you are not this…vampire gigolo." He was twirling her hair in his fingers again, his eyes sliding down her neck to her breasts and downward still.

"Stop that," she said insistently, slapping his hand away from her hair. "Your name is Julian Sark. You are looking for Irina Derevko. Do you recognize the name? Do you recognize me?"

"I think I'd remember someone who made me forget that there are naked women dancing everywhere," he said smoothly, raising a hand to caress her cheek.

"Listen to me," Sydney said patiently, pushing his hand away again. "You and I are partners…_business_ partners. We were on a mission and we got sick. You are sick right now."

"I feel perfectly fine," Sark objected. "Better than fine, even."

"You're not fine," Sydney said, slapping him in the face. It had worked for the Scarecrow; she hoped it might snap Sark out of his stupor.

"I don't know if I'm sick, but my face definitely hurts."

"You. Are. Sick," Sydney repeated, slapping him again. She raised her arm to slap him again but he was too quick, his fingers wrapping around her wrists and pulling her against his chest.

"You smell so good, Sydney Bristow," he breathed into her ear. "I wonder if you taste just as good."

"What?" Sydney asked stupidly; her heart pounding. She struggled against him, feeling his heart fluttering in time with hers.

"I want to taste you."

Sydney's heart stopped. She felt a scathing insult form on her tongue, wanting to push him away some way, _any_ way, but stopped. She thought maybe…maybe there was a chance. A chance he was still inside this body. She took it.

"I want you to," she said, sultry and low, turning her head toward him. "Taste me, Sark."

A sound like a shutter reverberated in Sydney's ear as Sark's mouth descended to her throat, breathing in the scent she knew he loved so much. His lips found the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder and Sydney closed her eyes. There was a moment that she lost herself in his touch but it was only a moment. She knew what she had to do to bring him back so she pressed even closer to him, mashing their bodies together so that no light could flow between them. She captured his mouth in hers and teased him with her tongue the way she knew he always wanted her to. He responded but it seemed…passionless. Rudimentary. As if the normal protocol for this particular instance dictated only a certain amount of force, a certain amount of feeling.

Sydney forced him back, pressing him against the bones of the tunnel, not caring and perhaps actually wanting the sharp edges to puncture his clothes and scratch his skin. She pushed the shirt back over his shoulders to run her hands over the firm muscle of his arms, chest and stomach. Her mouth was open over his and she thought she could feel his breathing change. His skin began to warm to her touch and she felt him begin to press back against her.

She didn't stop. She had to be sure. Her mouth halted its assault on his and, without warning, she bit him hard on his crooked lower lip, drawing blood. Her tongue flicked against him and she tasted salt and iron. She felt him moan under her lips and his hands were in her hair. He turned her, so she was the one pressed against the wall, feeling his body mold against her every curve. It was _Sark_ kissing her now, she could feel it, and it was like coming home. The familiar pressure and pull between them, hearing him say her name over and over. Sydney felt the blood from his lip smear against her mouth, tasting the metallic tang and then, somehow, there was too much. She couldn't just taste the blood; she smelled it too, the coppery smell overwhelming her nostrils. Suddenly it was everywhere, running down Sark's face, coating her lips, pooling in her mouth, staining her shirt and she pushed him back.

Blood poured from Sark's nose as his eyes rolled up in the back of his head. Sydney tried to catch him but he crumpled like a rag doll onto the damp, stale earth. She fell to her knees, shouting his name, shaking him, spitting his blood from her mouth. She pushed him forward and pinched the bridge of his nose so he wouldn't choke to death on his own blood but still, he did not wake. The strobe lights flickered and the music droned on and the people danced but Sark wouldn't stir.

It felt like days as Sark lay motionless, as the music pulsed hypnotically in her ears and bodies thrashed around her. It had to have been only seconds, Sydney realizes later. Sydney hadn't breathed in those few moments before Sark's eyes finally fluttered. Those eyes, those damn blue eyes pierced her, even through the darkness and she let out the breath she had been holding for him.

"Sydney," he said, and it was so him, so Sark, his cobalt eyes wide. "You're bleeding. Are you alright?"

She couldn't help it. Sydney laughed. It was either a laugh or a sob or perhaps something in between but she chose to believe laugh because it was such a relief to hear his voice, his _real_ voice again.

"_I'm_ fine," she said, wiping his blood off her face with her jacket sleeve. "You definitely are not. This is yours," she said, wiping blood from under his nose and holding it up for him to see.

Reality seemed to finally and fully dawn on Sark. He looked from the blood on Sydney's hands and face to the people grinding fervently and somewhat indifferently against one another just yards from where he lay.

"Are we…," Sark started to ask in an incredulous voice. "…at an orgy?" Sark spat blood from his mouth and squinted his eyes, as if they weren't used to the flashing lights and half-naked bodies already.

"I'm going to go ahead and give you the simple answer right now and say yes, yes we are at an orgy," Sydney said calmly, putting an arm under Sark's shoulder and pulling the both of them up. "…but it's entirely your fault because I only followed you here. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking," he said sleepily. "What happened to Sloane…Cesar?" Sark asked, his head lolling around on his neck. Sydney glanced at his face and saw him struggle to keep his eyes open.

"I don't know," Sydney said truthfully, trying to maneuver them between the copulating vampire couples. "It's been five days since New Orleans. We're in Paris"

"It's never lasted that long," Sark said, slurring his words. Sydney was struggling, as Sark's legs seemed to be working intermittingly. They finally left the bone tunnel and were traversing the stone spiral staircase slowly. "Only ever lasted a few hours…did you…did you get sick? Did you…suffer?"

"I don't remember," Sydney replies truthfully, lumbering under Sark's weight.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," Sark says drunkenly, swaying slightly. "I wasn't there for you. You were…all alone…I'm so sorry Sydney."

"I'll forgive you if we can get back to the hotel without you passing out on me," Sydney said, to which Sark replied to by passing out again. It only took a few slaps to the face to wake him again, to get him putting one foot in front of the other and they were walking away from this damnable place.

They walked the streets of Paris, arms around each other, covered in Sark's blood. Sydney found herself thinking how far the two of them had come…and how far they'd still have to go to end it all.

* * *

He slept for days. Sydney had resigned to the fact that she would simply let the sickness pass. Knowing what the sickness really did she couldn't bare to take him to a hospital. Whoever controlled him…she supposed they controlled her now too…would find him if they resurfaced. Not that it mattered much, now. They could simply send the sickness after them and have Sydney and Sark walk straight into their lair for all Sydney knew. But far be it for Sydney to make it easy for them.

She was glad Sark wasn't awake for when the anger finally bubbled to the surface. The thought of not being in control of your own mind and body, the only things that _truly_ belonged to her, was never something she thought she would ever lose again. She alternately fumed and cried, as she tended to do when upset. But in the end she knew getting upset wouldn't cure her.

At least it wasn't Sark's fault. Sydney knew this now. After encountering Miles Shapiro and finding herself in the middle of that bizarre Halloween heist, she couldn't blame Sark for the sickness anymore. While Sark slept fitfully, Sydney researched.

Miles Shapiro had been in the F.B.I. for ten years; Sydney discovered that much was true. He also had been to a small camp every summer from the age of six until twelve specifically for "gifted children". Delving deeper, Sydney cross referenced some of the names she could recall from Will's Project Christmas files. She found that she couldn't find information on most of them but she did find that the lives of three men and one of the women on the list had engaged in unlikely activities before they died within the past year.

The bodyguard of a U.S. Ambassador calmly picks up a carving knife at a catered affair in London and stabs the Assistant Chief Constable of Scotland Yard in between the entrée and dessert courses. A senatorial candidate from Missouri drives his car into a crowded parade route for the incumbent. A stay at home dad leaves his children in the middle of the day to drive halfway across the country and break into a heavily guarded military base, sniping the guards off one by one. A C.I.A. agent calmly walks into her boss's office, douses him in kerosene, and lights him on fire.

The connection between her, Sark, the Project Christmas kids and the total control of sleeper agents was too much to ignore now. How could she press onward with Sark and the Messenger when, at any point in time, she could find herself halfway around the world, plunging a knife into a complete stranger?

She thought about the cell phone and ice pick she had found on Sark after he fell asleep. She had found one message in the phone's history. All it contained was a photo of Gabriel Bennet, the man who had tried to seduce Sydney down in the Catacombs. He had been a scientist, after all of that bizarreness. A simple scientist that dabbled in the occasional underground, occultist orgy. He doubled majored at Johns Hopkins in medicine and computer science and had as many accolades as he had depraved extracurricular activities. If Dr. Carlile hadn't been murdered by Sark, she thought she would have found him to be the perfect boy toy. She hadn't found anything illegal on Gabriel, but wouldn't write him off just yet.

Sydney had briefly considered what would have happened if Sark had found Gabriel before she had found him. Gabriel definitely would have been dead, and what of her? Sydney had always thought, in the days of SD-6 that if the time had come and she and Sark had to finish one or the other once and for all, she would take him down. She always felt she had the upper hand with Sark; but now? She looked inside of him when the sickness took over and saw only death.

It was night on the third day of Sark's slumber. Sydney hadn't taken much time for herself as she watched over him but now she sat on the windowsill, staring out at the twinkling lights of Paris. She could only do research for so long before her mind started to drift to that kiss down in the catacombs and she forced herself to do something else before she could think about it too hard.

He probably wouldn't even remember it when he woke up which was…a shame she was about to think but really, it was a blessing. She didn't need Sark to bring the incident up at inopportune moments, which would be approximately…every single minute of the day. She could tuck that little episode away, something for her and her alone. She would save for cold nights when she and Sark would not longer partners, when she could take the moment at face value without the complications of living in close quarters. Then it could be exactly what it was: getting good and kissed by a good looking man and nothing more.

"It's like a fairy tale," his voice sounds far away, even though Sydney can now feel that he's right behind her. She turns and she sees he's standing on his own, staring out at the city over her shoulder. He looks pale, emphasizing the dark shadows under his eyes that look so blue that in the dim light they seem to match his eyes.

"What is?" Sydney turns to face him, not sure yet if this is one of his waking dreams or if he is somewhat lucid and just being weird.

"This," Sark says simply. "Us."

Sydney rolls her eyes at him but feels as if a gigantic weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She stands and approaches him and he puts his arm around her. She knows it isn't a gesture of attraction now; he's still weak. Sydney shoulders his weight admirably and she steers them to the bathroom.

"As interesting as that sounds," Sydney says, pushing the bathroom door open and directing him inside. "I'm going to completely honest with you."

"You want to shower with me," Sark said weakly, though his smile was as dynamic as ever. "I knew it."

"No, nice try though," Sydney said, depositing Sark in the closed toilet seat. She reached into the shower and turned it on; making sure it wasn't too hot. "I tried to clean you up as best I could when we got back a few nights ago, but there was only so much I could do without trespassing into waters that might be used against me at a later point in time."

"You dirty girl, you _do_ want to shower with me. It's so unlike you, Sydney. I love it."

"Ugh," Sydney said with a shudder. "You wish. When you get right down to it, Sark…you stink. You need to shower."

"I find that offensive. Women love my natural musk."

"When that musk has been marinating for three days, it ceases to be charming," Sydney said, reaching outside the bathroom and finding a towel, a tee shirt, and drawstring pajama pants and placing them on the bathroom counter. "Get in the shower. I'll wait outside. Only if I hear a thump and see blood seeping from under the door will I come in here. Is that understood?"

"Meh," Sark mumbled, waving her off. Sydney took that as an indication to leave and shut the door behind her. She called room service and ordered a few things; she had managed to get Sark to drink intermittingly during his slumber but he was probably starving by now. She sat against the wall outside of the bathroom, listening to him. She got up only to bring the food inside and then took back up at her post, her back against the bathroom door. She was only fully satisfied that he hadn't drowned himself when she heard the shower turn off and the rustle of a shower curtain opening. She sat back on the windowsill overlooking Paris, as if she hadn't cared whether he slipped in the shower and killed himself or not.

"I meant what I said," Sark says, flopping down on the bed near the window. She hears him reach for something on the food tray but when she's turned to him, it's already been devoured. She notices he hasn't bothered putting on the shirt she brought him.

"What do you mean?" Sydney figures it's been days since he's had a cohesive thought and lets him continue without being snide.

"Think about it," he starts out reasonably. "Two people, bitter enemies, constantly fighting one another put down their arms to unite over a common goal. Hate fades into tolerance, tolerance into respect, respect into…something else entirely. You saved me. You brought me out of a deep sleep with a kiss. If that isn't what fairy tales are made of, I don't know what is."

"So you remember being down in the catacombs," Sydney says, not asking. She can't tell if he's making fun of her or not. She turns her face back to the window, watching the night. She feels the cool breeze brush over her warm cheeks.

"Some of it," Sark admits. "Nothing before you came for me. I just remember…you. You kissing me…saving me. Why do you keep doing that?"

"Kissing you?" Sydney doesn't even like saying it. She feels as if she's done something wrong, which is strange because nothing felt wrong about it.

"Saving me."

"Oh," Sydney breathes. She shrugs, as if it wasn't a big deal. Suddenly she feels as if she should do something. She stands and begins rustling through a duffel bag next to the bed. "It wasn't entirely of my doing. Marshall, Marshall Flinkman, do you remember him? He's the one that found you for me."

"Marshall?" Sark says, brightening. "He helped you find me? He's a stand up guy, that one. Did he mention anything about whether he decided between the counter-clockwise swirl or the pinch? Because I told him I am partial to the pinch but he argued adamantly for the swirl –"

"Oh, God, no. No, no, no," Sydney said, waving her hands as if she could wave away the idea of Sark and Marshall discussing sex. She finally came up with what she was looking for in her bag and sat next to Sark on the bed.

"Look at me," Sydney says, and before Sark could say anything otherwise, she shines a flashlight in his eyes.

"Your eyes are slightly dilated," she says in a clinical sort of voice. Sark looks at her, _really_ looks at her for the first time since he came to. She looks so damn tired and he feels an immense sense of regret wash over him. She takes his wrist in her slender fingers and checks his pulse. She feels cold where he is hot, leaving cool trails on his skin where she has been. It feels as if she has brought him back to life. Before her there was nothing, nothing but the pain of his head collapsing in on itself and out of the nightmares and darkness she was there, her hot lips on his. Her breath of life, so hot and sweet, courses through him as his blood now courses through her.

"Your pulse is slightly elevated," she says with concern in her voice. She puts a hand to his head to feel if he's warm and he can't help himself and he closes his eyes at her touch. He can't quite process the feelings moving fast and furious in his veins. They move so fast that sadness becomes indecipherable with gratitude and regret merges with lust.

"You didn't answer my question," Sark says softly. "Why do you keep saving me, Sydney?"

"Why do you always need answers?" Sydney retorts quickly, sounding exasperated. She lowers her hands from him slowly. "Why can't you just let things _be_?"

"It's in my nature to fight," he says simply. "I always want more. I _need_ more. Nothing can just simply _be_. You know that. You're exactly like me."

"I'm nothing like you," Sydney says, but they do not come out vehement and venomous as she intended. The words feel strange and foreign and her mouth fumbles around them awkwardly, hesitantly. It's been so long since she's said that to him that she's not sure if she believes it anymore.

"You are," Sark replies calmly. "You will never stop fighting. Even now, when you're sick and tired, you don't give in. How do you expect me to be any different?"

"Because I _am_ tired," Sydney says so quietly that Sark leans toward her, not sure he's even heard her. There is something shifting and moving inside her, tightening like a bowstring.

"I don't even know when it happened…but somehow you're the one person keeping me from feeling completely alone in this world. When I'm with you…I feel like there is a way, a means, a _reason_ to keep on going. I save you because…because somehow, you've become the only real thing in my entire life."

"Sydney…" Sark trails off, not trusting himself to say any more.

"I'm just so tired of fighting it," Sydney says softly and kisses him. It is not forced, as their other kisses have been. It is not a ploy, or a distraction. She gives into it, into _him_ and the release feeds her, kissing him deeper, drawing him closer. Giving in to it, to him, feels like tonguing a bad tooth; a sweet, painful ache just waiting to be touched again and again.

Sark leans back, pulling her so she is on top of him, feeling her long, lean body against his. He doesn't talk…he doesn't want her to stop, but all he can think of is how much he's wanted this, fantasized about it. He wants to tell her to do things to him, tell her what he wants to do to her, but his voice catches in his throat. He knows she'll snap out of this, like she always does, and push him away, but for the moment, he takes it all in. The smell of her, the feel of her body as it molds perfectly against his, the instinctive way they move together. He doesn't want to lose her again.

His hands slide up the smooth, hot skin of her torso and back while her tongue and teeth begin and dual assault on his mouth and its all he can do to roughly roll her over and tease her in kind. She straddles his hips and feels his attraction, hard and insistent, through the thin material of their pants. She doesn't shy away and rocks slowly on top of him, feeling the heat grow between them. Sark opens his mouth in a moan and she sucks his breath in through clenched teeth in response.

He has to see her. He knows it's probably a mistake but he can't help himself; there is so little separating them now but he needs more. Somehow she knows and her arms rise and he's easing the thin material over her back and over her head. Her bra is white and simple and her small breasts rise and fall with the quickness of her breath. He knows this because he can't seem to close his eyes. He needs to see every part of her and with a quick flick of the hand he frees the pesky, white bra separating their naked chests. Sydney's eyes are closed and he doesn't know if it's from the sensation or because she doesn't want to look at him.

Sydney tangles one hand in Sark's hair as she kisses him and the other wraps around his neck so she can pull him to her and feel the skin of his stomach and chest on hers. His hair is soft and damp from the shower and Sydney feels it curl around her finger.

"Sark," his name escapes her lips in a shudder. Her eyes snap open and for a second she doesn't think she's said anything at all. His eyes, those damn bottomless blue eyes look through hers and she _knows_ she's gone. With her eyes still open she kisses him softly, hesitantly; an openmouthed invitation that he takes. Sark feels his name on her lips and groans, feeling his breath grow hot and fast against her mouth. He knows she wants to control this but it's just too much.

He rolls her over and pins her beneath him so he can take in every inch of her. He tears his lips away from hers and moves, capturing the skin of her neck, earlobe, collarbone, breast, stomach. He's whispering her name against her skin like a prayer. She sighs, winding his curls between her fingers as he traverses lower.

He arches to glance up at her and Sydney admires the lean muscle of his back as his finger hooks the side of her shorts and fingers the thin band of her thong. She nods her assent and he slowly removes the last vestiges of clothing from her body. For a moment, time stops, and Sark forgets to breathe. He's taking in every inch of her, memorizing every line, every curve, every smooth bit of her sweet smelling skin as if she might push him away at any second.

He doesn't hesitate for long. The blond whiskers of his chin lightly scrape against Sydney's inner thigh before his hungry mouth meets the apex of her legs and for minutes, dear God it could have been days, she can't even begin to think. Words escape her and there are only the sighs, gasps, and moans that she can't seem to keep in her mouth. Sark savors the taste of her, thinking he would happily stay exactly as he was for hours on end, but Sydney tugs at his hair, _hard_, and drags him up her body. She kisses him fully on the mouth, something she has _never_ done before or let anyone ever do to her, and she can taste herself on him. She feels him grin broadly under her lips and their teeth click together.

Sydney fumbles with the drawstring of his pants for what seem like infinitely drawn out moments but when they do finally come off, she is _not_ disappointed. Her eyes travel down the entirety of his body and he really is a beautiful, well oiled machine. She runs her hands over his ass and thighs, her hand settling near the scar on his leg, which Sydney lightly fingers with the pad of her thumb before pushing him in the shoulder and turning him to his back. She climbs on top of him and Sydney almost laughs at the look on Sark's face. There's determination there, but also a look of pure amazement, as if he can't believe this is really happening.

She touches his arousal assuredly, with no hesitation, and his breath hisses out of his teeth. He hates that she's stopped kissing him so he cups her face, feeling her lips, warm and insistent on his. He kisses her like the world is ending and she can't wait any longer. She lets go of him with her hand and hovers above him, straddling the brink between everything she knows is wrong and the only thing she feels is right. She breaks the kiss and presses her forehead against his, breathing heavily.

"You'll never be rid of me after this," Sark says, rolling his hips deliciously and Sydney bites her lip to keep from making noise. She's past ready, she wants him, needs to feel him.

"I could always kill you," Sydney replies airily. She knows how wrong this is, dead wrong, but she feels herself unraveling and it just feels so damn good.

Sark smirks. "Wonderful attitude."

She smiled beatifically and finally surrenders to him. It's as if she's known his body for years, the way he moves inside her. She rocks in smooth, languid strokes, as if she didn't know exactly what she was doing to him. Sark can't stop his hands from roaming her entire body, needing to touch her, feel every part of her, but his eyes never stray from her face, as if looking away for one second she might turn into someone else.

She moves slowly, as if she has all the time in the world, knowing how much it is driving him crazy. Sark feels it only just to give her a taste of her own medicine, snaking a hand between them and beginning to rub her just as deliciously slow as she is riding him.

"That's hardly fair," she says indignantly, though it comes out like a moan.

"You should know better than anyone I never play fair," Sark says huskily and captures her mouth again before she says something that brings him past the brink. He rolls her on her back yet again because he simply can't take her teasing anymore. He buries his face in her neck and smells her hair while bringing Sydney closer and closer to the edge. They move instinctively, their bodies knowing how perfectly they fit together even when their minds are long past the point of realizing what that means.

Sydney could slap him for being such a tease; bringing her close and then slowing down, only to build her back up. For Sark, he was simply prolonging the moment; savoring this small span of time where Sydney Bristow wants him, needs him. It was Sark bringing that sexy smirk to her face, eliciting tiny whimpers of pleasure from her and goddamn it if that wasn't the one, true thing he ever stupid enough to wish for.

She was straining against him, needing to feel every part of him, aching to feel her sweet release. She couldn't stand it anymore and whispers the words she knows will bring him his downfall right along with her.

"Sark," she moans against his lips. "Please."

"Sydney," he groans, thrusting deep inside of her, biting her lip and she is gone. Sydney's world explodes as electricity shoots out of her fingers and toes and the taste of coppery pennies floods her mouth. Sark pants her name again and again, coming hard as she rides her waves of pleasure with him. The feelings are so intense he doesn't trust himself to say anything other than her name, as if she is the anchor keeping him from flying apart, so he keeps saying it: Sydney, Sydney, _Sydney_, until the tides ebb and then they both quiet.

Moments pass in relative silence; only the sounds of their slowing pants and heartbeats fill the stillness. Their bodies are slick with the sheen of their exertions. He kisses her one last time and she feels promises in his touch.

"You are so good, you know that," he says teasingly, knowing she will remember.

He laughs; a deep, true sound and it fills Sydney with a strange, warm feeling.

"Some things never change," she answers simply with a smile. Somehow they shift and he's lying beside her, her head on his chest, his eyes closed. She feels the slow, steady intake and release of breath and Sydney tries to extract herself, thinking that he's fallen asleep. She can't even begin to process what has happened and she knows it won't get done if she's laying here in his arms like a smitten little girl.

"I don't think so," Sark mutters, holding on to her arm. He doesn't even open his eyes.

"Excuse me?" Sydney says, half indignant. There are two perfectly good beds in the room and she has become quite accustomed to sleeping alone. She doesn't need him to pretend this is at all normal because she knows it will just complicate things even more.

"You're not leaving me now," he says, pulling her close. "I could stop breathing in my sleep and then you'd have a real hard time explaining a dead body to the maid service. That and you'd miss me."

"You're delusional," Sydney replies dryly. "You're not going to stop breathing in your sleep." Her brain is finally working now and it starts sending her warning signals that she needs to flee far, far away. It begins to dawn on her how very, very wrong this all is, but his touch is so soft and warm and she's so tired of fighting him when she now knows how good it feels to give in.

"Why don't you stay and make sure?"

She sighs and he curls around her, throwing an arm around her stomach as she turns on her side. He buries his face in her hair and inhales deeply, the scent of orange peel and spice no longer smell like defeat to him, but it doesn't smell like triumph either as he sometimes thought it would if this ever happened. It simply smells like Sydney and he's content to find that's all he needs.

Sleeps finds somehow finds them quickly and easily. There are no nightmares for either of them that night; only deep, contented sleep; his arms wrapped around her and their legs tangled, keeping them both warm on the cool, Parisian night. They sleep so soundly that neither of them wakes up when a man stands outside their hotel room in the middle of the night, carefully folding a piece of white paper and slipping it under the door.

Sloane straightens up and leans against the wall, catching his breath. He's still weak from the heart attack but determination has always made him stronger. He thinks it's just about the right time they finally met the Messenger. Sloane imagines the looks on Sark and Sydney's faces when they see who the Messenger really is and smiles. He'll probably enjoy it more than he should but, then again, he's always been that way about his work.

* * *

Author's Note: Sex! SEX! FINALLY! Huzzah for sex! Let me tell you, I agonized over the sex scene because I have never, ever written one. I'm thinking to myself that I want for them to finally have sex but I don't know how explicit I want it to be, what (if any) dialogue will happen during, and how convincing can I make it that these two characters finally do it. I tried to be descriptive without specifically saying "insert tab A into slot B" anatomy talk. I think I typed out "cock" once and laughed too hard and couldn't put it in (haha, double entendre). Also, there are precautions that normal people would take before sex that obviously didn't happen here, but let's all just assume that Sydney tested herself and Sark for any diseases after the catacombs orgy, because, if you haven't noticed, she is Sydney Bristow and has access to STD tests and what not. Maybe Marshall threw in a few free STD tests with the purchase of facial recognition software, I don't know. As for condom use, let's just say Sydney is under the impression she can't get pregnant anymore and that's why the condom talk wasn't introduced. So…yeah. Sex.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Eleven

1. Phillip Glass, "Music Box". **Listen To When:** Sydney's sickness takes over until when she wakes up.

Lyrics: _Instrumental_

2. Bat For Lashes, "What's A Girl To Do". **Listen To When:** Sydney wakes up and discovers the Wizard of Oz robbery.

Lyrics: _When you love so long  
That the thrill is gone  
And your kisses at night  
Are replaced with tears  
And when your dreams are on  
A train to train wreck town  
Then I ask you now, what's a girl to do?_

3. MGMT, "Time To Pretend". **Listen To When: **Marshall hangs out in his office and receives a phone call.

Lyrics: _This is our decision, to live fast and die young.  
We've got the vision, now let's have some fun.  
Yeah, it's overwhelming, but what else can we do.  
Get jobs in offices, and wake up for the morning commute._

Forget about our mothers and our friends  
We're fated to pretend  
To pretend  
We're fated to pretend  
To pretend

4. Jorge Drexler, "High and Dry (Cover of Radiohead)". **Listen To When:** Marshall and Sydney go to the mall.

Lyrics: _Two jumps in a week, I bet you think that's pretty clever don't you boy.  
Flying on your motorcycle, watching all the ground beneath you drop.  
You'd kill yourself for recognition; kill yourself to never ever stop.  
You broke another mirror; you're turning into something you are not._

Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry  
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry

Drying up in conversation, you will be the one who cannot talk.  
All your insides fall to pieces, you just sit there wishing you could still make love  
They're the ones who'll hate you when you think you've got the world all sussed out  
They're the ones who'll spit at you. You will be the one screaming out.

5. Depeche Mode, "Enjoy the Silence (Mike Shinoda Remix)". **Listen To When:** Sydney is in the Paris Catacombs.

Lyrics: _Words like violence  
Break the silence  
Come crashing in  
Into my little world  
Painful to me  
Pierce right through me  
Can't you understand  
Oh my little girl_

All I ever wanted  
All I ever needed  
Is here in my arms  
Words are very unnecessary  
They can only do harm

Vows are spoken  
To be broken  
Feelings are intense  
Words are trivial  
Pleasures remain  
So does the pain  
Words are meaningless  
And forgettable

6. Tea Party, "Heaven Coming Down". **Listen To When:** Sydney and Sark's unresolved sexual tension turns to resolved sexual tension.

Lyrics: _With nothing to do you'd waste away  
Obscure in exile  
They've witnessed the times  
You've gone astray  
Whose fault? now you're thinking..._

Theres's nothing to prove  
A message from the crowd  
To the shore...

And it feels now  
Just like heaven's coming down  
Your soul shakes free  
As its conscience hits the ground

So strange are the ways,  
They all have changed  
Still life it stays the same  
A break from the past  
Could make it last  
Maybe just a little longer

There's nothing to prove  
A message from the crowd  
To the shore...

You surrender  
Love under will  
Rest assured you're adored

And it feels now  
Just lie heaven's coming down  
Your soul shakes free  
As its conscience hits the ground  
These signs, this fate  
Takes a path you didn't choose  
Stay Strong, Keep Faith  
There is a change that's  
Coming through  
Hold on my love  
Hold on


	19. Chapter 12, Part 1

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: HARD R (NOTE THE RATING CHANGE), for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline**: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: If any of you are still following my story, I humbly apologize for taking so long to put this chapter out. And, regrettably, I led **toriblue** and a few others to believe that chapter 12 will be the last chapter of FWF, and it will be…however there will be more than one part to chapter twelve. 3 parts, I think but at the very least, 2. In this chapter, Sydney and Sark deal with the aftermath of "the morning after", meet up with an old enemy, and witness the resurrection of not one, not two, but _three_ people we thought were dead! There is a Kill Bill reference in this one…a gold star for whoever finds it! Enjoy, please review, and as always, soundtrack is at the end!

* * *

Light shining through frost tinted glass awoke Sydney. Closing her eyes against the brightness, she luxuriated in the soft, warmth of the comforter and the pleasant ache that claimed her body. She felt around for a pillow and plopped it over her head, trying to damper the dust mote filled beams that brought her out of her slumber. She stretched under the covers and the sweet soreness throbbed slightly. She felt it everywhere.

And then she remembered.

Sydney bolted upright, quickly hiked up the sheet to hide her nakedness, and put a hand to her eyes, trying to will away the memories that came flooding back of the night before. But the thoughts came fast and furious there was no blocking them out. She could still taste him on her lips. She could feel the pressure of his deft fingers stroking at her thighs. She could smell the mix of cologne and sex on her hands. She could feel the burning heat pooling low in her belly as sex with Sark flitted maddeningly across her mind. She felt him everywhere and it felt sick and delicious.

She dared to open her eyes. He was there, of course, as he always was when she least wanted to see him. He sat across the room on a chair, wearing only his boxer briefs and a less than ecstatic expression. A white note was clenched in his fist.

"We have a slight problem," he said in lieu of a greeting. He leaned forward and tossed the note on the bed. Though she had seen every bit of the man the night before, her gaze lingered on his exposed torso. Flat and tight, he had the lean look of a cat stretching in the sun. She couldn't seem to help herself from staring. His elbows went to his knees and a hand that had, hours before, trailed fiery trails across her body, went to his chin.

Sydney held the sheet tight to her chest but reached out for the letter. Sark watched her unabashedly, marveling that even in the simple gesture of picking up a scrap of paper; she was beautiful and spiteful, snatching the note into her grasp with to read with suspicious eyes. She read quickly and though he felt the seriousness of situation keenly, there was no stopping him from appreciating the delicate curve of her back that she failed to cover with her armor of Egyptian cotton.

She sighed heavily and crumpled the note in her fist. She pulled her knees to her chest and Sark thought she might be unconsciously protecting herself but from him or from the note's author, he did not know. Her naked back taunted him and he had to make a sincere effort to remain professional.

"He was right outside the door," she said coldly. She made no effort to hide the disgust in her voice.

"I know," Sark said. His face was impassive and Sydney wanted to reach across the bed and shake him. Why didn't he understand?

"I won't go," she said, obstinately, staring at him. "He wants me to meet him, as if I didn't just try to murder him? I'll be in his crosshairs before I even sit down. I can't afford another stupid mistake."

"If he wanted us dead, he could have done so easily last night," Sark replied logically. "There was nothing stopping him from sending a sniper an adjacent rooftop to shoot us through the window or simply knocking down the door and slaughtering us in the night. Our weapons were far enough away that we might not be here should Sloane have wished it."

"I know," Sydney breathed, her voice hollow. "I don't understand why he'd simply leave a letter when he could have…"

"He loves you, Sydney," Sark said matter-of-factly. Sydney paled. "Or whatever feeling of affection Arvin Sloane can feel. I think…I think he wants to help you."

"After I almost killed him?"

"Especially now. He's desperate to be in your good favor…you and your father's. He has nothing else except your family. He says he has information. I say you take him up on it. The worst thing that happens is you would have try and kill him again." The corner of Sark's lip curved slightly. "Just choose a more skilled partner next time."

"Nothing about this is funny," Sydney said sourly. "This is serious." At that, Sark's tepid smirk turned into a full grin.

"Quite serious," Sark echoed. "Life and death, mortal enemies, very serious indeed. But I do find how tightly you are holding that sheet to yourself quite funny, considering how much of you I've seen," Sark said, standing. He approached the bed and Sydney stiffened.

"Don't go clutching your pearls," Sark teased, rounding the bed and picking up a glass of ice water. "I won't bite, at least, not as hard as you bit me last night."

He held the cool glass up to his lip which, Sydney now saw, was bloodied and slightly swollen. She flushed at the simultaneous pride and shame that she had marked him. She swallowed the impulse to grin.

"Sorry," she said insincerely.

"I can see how distressed you are over it," he answered. She rolled her eyes. He stood behind her now, and Sydney felt his gaze as hot as his hands had been last night.

"This was a mistake," Sydney said, staring ahead of her. "A momentarily lapse of judgment. It will never happen again."

"Oh, I agree. Clearly a mistake," Sark echoed, albeit in a sarcastic tone. "I wouldn't dream of another rendezvous. It would be far too unprofessional for my liking."

"You should get ready," Sark said, his tone of voice shifting. She turned her head and he was there, leaning, his lips on the naked skin between her neck and her shoulder, not kissing…waiting. "Unless there is something else you'd rather do? Something…professional, of course."

A million rebuffs came to mind and yet, she swallowed them all. Sydney resisted several urges at once; the impulse to hit, the compulsion to run, and despite what she had said to him on the contrary, a sad, rampant longing to fall back into the sheets and find oblivion in Sark, in his skin, taste, and feel. Sydney had always been strong and now was not the time to lie down and give in. Strong yes, but…not solitary. Not anymore. She stared straight ahead, knowing what she was going to say.

"You're coming with me?"

It was meant as a statement, but came out like a question. She wasn't afraid of Sloane and she wasn't afraid to die. She wasn't afraid of being alone. But now…she didn't have to be alone, if she didn't want to be.

She felt his slow smile blossom against her skin.

"Of course," he said softly. He didn't elaborate and neither did she. They didn't need to.

"You should get ready," he said, backing away. "He's expecting you within the hour. You can shower first…I'll wait."

Sydney stood, still clutching the sheet to herself, issuing a suspicious, amused look at Sark.

"What, no cute remark about showering together?"

Sark struck a wounded pose.

"Sydney, dearest. We've already been over this. I am a professional. I would never sully our business relationship by way of cheap innuendos."

"It's never stopped you before," Sydney said, walking to the bathroom. "What a shame. And now you'll never know if I would have said yes."

She shrugged and then smiled; a true, conspiratorial grin that left him utterly breathless. The door shut and he heard the water turn on but he was already lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He lifted a hand to his mouth and tasted her sweetness on the pads of his fingers, already lamenting the fact he'd be washing her taste and scent away in a few minutes time. He kept telling himself there would be another time, where the stars would align and she would come to him again. But reality was cruel and unyielding and so he savored this moment unabashedly, with no one there to judge his weakness.

His smile matched hers, genuine and secretive, while he waited for her.

* * *

Sydney and Sark arrived early but Sloane was already seated at the appointed meeting place, the Café de Flore, at the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Rue St. Benoit, in the Vie arrondissement of Paris. He sipped an espresso and observed the street activity blandly, as if he wasn't waited for his attempted murderer. Sydney approached him, her hand on her firearm underneath her jacket. He noticed her at last and cocked his head to the side, studying her.

"Do sit, Sydney. I can't have you looming over me and expect to have a civil conversation."

"You expected this conversation to be civil?" Sydney asked, cautiously taking a seat across from him.

"You can tell Mr. Sark to come join us…there is no need for this cloak and dagger charade. I only came here to talk. I'm not even armed." He opened his suit jacket to demonstrate. Sydney sighed and motioned to Sark, who had taken a seat at a table behind Sloane. _So much for secrecy._

"Do you expect me to take your word for it?" Sydney asked, not looking up when Sark took a seat beside her.

"No, but I thought you having the upper hand might make you more amenable to discussion. Besides, listening is the least you could do…you did try to kill me, after all."

Sloane had a curious smirk on his lips and was impressed that Sydney did not do so much as blink when her former boss mentioned the failed attempt on his life. He turned to Sark.

"Mr. Sark, I am certainly surprised to see you in tow. Tell me, have you brought Sydney down to your level or are you perhaps moving up in the world to be working with such an amazing woman?"

"I like to think of it as a little of both," Sark replied airily. He pats the spot under his blazer where his trusty Walther PPK rests. Sloane nods. A few tense, silent moments pass before Sydney takes the lead.

"Why?" She asked simply.

"I might ask you the same thing," Sloane replied. "We've had our differences in the past. Why try to kill me know?"

"This is why you wanted to meet? Hurt feelings?" Sydney's voice had taken on a harsh, cold quality.

"No, but curiosity has always been one of my vices. I must know."

"You already know," Sydney said, spitting out the words. "You took everything from me, for that alone I should've killed you. But there was one thing that bound us, one thing that made me merciful."

"Nadia," Sloane breathed and Sydney's face hardened. Even now Sloane's eyes lit up at the mention of his daughter's name.

"How can there be a world where she is dead and you still live?" Sydney asked, as if she couldn't fathom such a place.

"Sydney, this is what I am here to talk to you about," Sloane said. He made a motion to take her hand but Sydney snatched her hand away, a horrified look on her face. He folded his hands on the table, searching the face that looked so much like his daughter's.

"You left me for dead but you couldn't even begin to understand my incredible will to live," Sloane began. "Cesar was already dead but still remained to be useful, as he still had his cell phone on him. I called my people, they disposed of the body, and we treated the heart attack as well as could be, though, I doubt I'll be running marathons any time soon. I say this, Sydney, because as I lied there, I knew I needed to live. Not for me, not for Rambaldi. But for her." He paused, as if bracing himself.

"Nadia is alive, Sydney."

Sydney laughed; a cold, ugly sound. "Is this the game you want to play? Do no go down this path, Sloane. I won't simply kill you…I will _destroy_ you."

"I know about the headaches, Sydney," Sloane said deliberately. "Yours and Sark's. I know you're not the only ones having these headaches and fugue states. I know about the Messenger. I know that your parents are missing. And I know there is an evil at your back that you aren't even aware of, far more dangerous than the Messenger and five times more powerful than Rambaldi. Nadia is alive and I can prove it to you. Answer your phone, Sydney."

At that, Sydney's cell rang shrilly. She glanced at Sark, who had loosened the other gun at his ankle and had it pointing at Sloane under the table. She issued another venomous look to Sloane but reached for the phone and flipped it open.

A video feed streams to her phone's screen, showing a hand holding a Spanish newspaper with today's date above the headlines. Sydney tries to make out the newspaper's name but as quickly as the newspaper had appeared it was taken away, revealing a white, nondescript room. A hospital bed dominated the space.

"I'm reaching for my phone," Sloane said cautiously, and Sark took the opportunity to dig the barrel of his pistol into the meat of Sloane's side. Sloane eyed the gun and nodded. His phone came out of a jacket pocket and spoke authoritatively into it.

"Bring the camera over to the bed."

The person holding the camera walked slowly and Sydney held her breath. By the time it reached the bedside Sydney felt dizzy with lack of oxygen. She let out hr breath with a hiss and waited. The picture turned and it was Nadia. Alive, beautiful, pale, _conscious_ Nadia.

"This is a trick," Sydney breathed, her eyes never leaving her sister's visage on the screen. "The paper is doctored; this could be from months ago."

Sloane's movements were measured, slow. Sliding the phone across the table, he gave her a rare smile.

"Talk to her."

The faceless man in Nadia's room put a cell phone to Nadia's cracked lips. Her eyes lolled to one side; unfocused and glassy. Sydney heard the quick, shallow breath of her sister crackling over the line.

"Nadia?" Even now, Sydney's voice held suspicion. She couldn't believe, she couldn't let Sloane trick her again, God, why was she so stupid? She wished Sark would just pull the trigger, in the middle of this crowded café, end this devil's life once and for all…

"Syd," Nadia whispered, barely audible but so, undeniably her sister that Sydney's eyes clouded with tears immediately. She didn't even feel the shame that Sark and Sloane were watching the tears fall down her face.

"Oh, sweetie, I miss you so much," Sydney choked, her voice thick.

"I heard you," Nadia wheezed. Her breath was labored, as if every word hurt to say.

"I hear you too," Sydney said urgently.

"No," Nadia said, her voice almost too soft to hear. "I heard you. When I was asleep…when I was in a coma…I heard you. I heard you…every time."

"I'm glad," Sydney said, wiping the tears away. Sark kept his attention on Sloane; he felt like an unwanted eavesdropper on a private moment. He poked Sloane harder in the side with his gun for good measure.

"So…tired," Nadia said and Sydney touched the screen of her cell phone, trying to stroke her sister's face, as she clutched Sloane's phone to her ear.

"Please don't go to sleep," Sydney begged. Her sister's eyes were already closing. A trickle of blood drew a straight, bold line from her sister's nose down to her mouth. Why didn't the man wipe it away?

"Nadia? Nadia!" But her sister fell back into unconsciousness, and the faceless man watching over her sister took the cell phone away from her ear. The camera shut off abruptly, leaving an imprint of her sister's face on Sydney's eyelids when she closed them, like looking into the sun too long.

"Why the charade?" Sydney asked, practically throwing Sloane's cell phone at him. "Why put everyone threw the pain of losing her…what about Weiss? What about _me_?"

"Everything I do is to protect my daughter," Sloane said evenly. "If that means lying, then it wouldn't be the first time. Tell me, Sydney. Have you ever thought there might be someone after you? Someone after your sister? Someone even after Mr. Sark here? Someone _other_ than the Messenger?"

Sydney's face was defiant, but Sloane's words rang true. There had been complications, events and setbacks in their mission to find her parents that could not be explained by the Messenger. Agents in Sark's New York apartment, Faust's involvement with the painting, and the fugue states where you pass out in one country and wake up in another had nothing to do with the Messenger's demands. When Sydney didn't answer, Sark interrupted.

"What are you saying, Arvin? That Sydney's parents' kidnapping is incidental?"

"I'm not saying their disappearance isn't important and that meeting the Messenger's demands isn't a necessity. I'm saying you have more to worry about than diamond necklaces and secretive vials. That painting, however…that painting was supposed to go to me."

Sark dug the gun deeper into Sloane's side. He was gratified to see the old man wince.

"Are you admitting to blackmailing us as the Messenger, Arvin?" Sark asked. "Funny, I never saw you getting the best of Irina. I thought she'd always be able to wrap you around her little finger. As for Jack Bristow? He would kill himself rather than let you use him to put Sydney in danger. There is no possible way you couldn't take them both down; you're far too inferior an adversary."

"I'll ignore your pointed jibe, Mr. Sark," Sloane replied. "And to answer your implication, no, I am not the Messenger. I, too, was being blackmailed by him. If I gave him certain items and intel, he'd give me the cure for Nadia's illness, a formula encoded within a painting."

Sark looked to Sydney, whose expression did not change. She was as cold and as beautiful as a statue; her face was marble, shaped by master sculptors into a mask of anger and doubt.

"The Messenger knows Nadia still lives, but just barely. I gave up everything he asked for and yet, I have not received the formula."

"I can get you the formula," Sydney said. There was no hesitation in her voice, though Sark thought there should be. Handing something Rambaldi related over to Sloane was never a good plan, but if Nadia was concerned, Sark knew he was going to have a hard time convincing her otherwise.

"Sydney, perhaps we should discuss this before - " Sark began before he was interrupted.

"I don't want it," Sydney said, turning to Sark. "If this thing can save her, I'm giving it to him. He'll get it, one way or another, eventually. I hate it. It has to save her. It _has_ to." Steely, frightened resolve had engulfed the woman he had been with last night. The playful, strong, extraordinary Sydney had gone into hiding. What was left was sad and small. He knew it was this desperate, unhinged yearning for family was what had drove her to him in the first place but this bordered with obsession. Sark could not understand obsession and what he did not understand he wanted to crush.

Sark let his eyes linger on her beautiful face for a moment, but turned away. It hurt him to look at her when she was so weak. When he did not answer her, Sloane continued.

"Sydney, knowing the painting is in your care, that you have the power to bring Nadia back to us…I know you will be able to get what else we need for your sister."

Sark was heartened to see Sydney grow immediately distrustful at this.

"I thought you said this would save her," she said warily.

"It will. When combined with another serum," Sloane spoke clinically and earnestly, with no trace of his rabid fascination with all things Rambaldi. Sydney was not convinced. "Both the formula and the serum are, on their own, powerful weapons. But when combined they make an all-powerful healing agent, the antidote for all things."

"It would bring people who were on the verge of death back to life…" Sydney echoed, remembering the words spoken to her not so long ago.

"It has to be you, Sydney," Sloane said urgently. The two of them seemed to forget Sark was even there. "It has to be you that procures the serum. It won't be difficult to get, I'd do it myself with a small team but I have been feeling under the weather, due to an untimely heart attack. It would be hard by yourself but with a willing partner…" Sloane's voice drifted off, turning his head to face Sark. "…it shouldn't be a problem."

Sydney did not even look at Sark before she answered.

"That won't be an issue. Where is this serum?"

"It is in an abandoned church in Venezuela," Sloane replied, swirling the contents of his espresso cup. "A man named Faust has it in his possession. He is formidable and will have the location under surveillance, but not heavily so. He's using it as a storage facility, so there will only be a few guards. With only the two of you there would be a good possibility of moving in and out without detection and with minimal collateral damage."

"Faust, you say," Sark replied silkily. He gave Sydney a pointed look, his blue eyes narrowed. She ignored him.

"You know of him?" Sloane asked, interested.

"Oh, Sydney is well acquainted with him," Sark replied in a tone that left no imagination to how he felt about the situation.

"Then you know he is not a man to be trifled with," Sloane said seriously. "I will forward you the intel on the facility to your cell, Sydney. Go knowing that you are to save your sister's life."

"Listen to you, you son of a bitch, and listen well," Sydney said menacingly, rising to her feet. Her hand moved quickly, a blur against the expanse between her and Sloane. She gripped his tie and yanked. Though she spoke quietly, people around them began to stare. Sark, annoyed, held his chin in his hand and turned away, trying to distance himself from the debacle.

"If this is a trick, some sort of ruse to gain sympathy, know that I will find you. After I get this serum, after it saves Nadia, you will give me answers to any and all questions I have. With every time you slip through my grasp I will only become more skilled and determined to kill you. I think you realize I will not fail in that respect again should you cross me. I will kill you, Arvin Sloane; it's just a matter of when. Don't make it be any sooner than you'd like."

She shoved him back and he faltered, but quickly recovered and straightened his tie. He stood, pulling the napkin from his lap and placing it on the table. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few Euros to toss on the table for his drink.

"Sydney, I'll be in touch," Sloane said formally. He turned to Sark. "Mr. Sark, always a pleasure."

"Arvin, I believe us to be too good of friends to lie to each other like that," Sark said, standing. He slid the gun back into his ankle holster, feigning to tie his shoe, so that no one around them would see.

Sloane did not say goodbye, but did look back to Sydney. The smile he gave was real and therefore infinitely more frightening. Sydney stared at the man's retreating form until Sark spoke.

"Come with me," he said sharply, snapping her out of her haze.

"What?" She asked distantly, still in thought.

"I'm not asking," Sark replied, taking her hand and roughly making her stand. He led her away from the café, through the throngs of people into a small park, lined with trees boasting the dying leaves of autumn. She did not struggle but her hand gripped his with her vice-like grip. An elderly couple sat on a bench and a few children ran after each other through a gazebo. Though the weather was turning chilly, a few picnickers dotted the space and couples walked dogs along a small stream. Sark led her down a bricked pathway, drawing her up a small bridge overlooking a rushing stream. They were far enough not to be overheard here.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sydney asked angrily, wrenching her hand from his.

"I should ask the same of you," Sark replied, his voice measured but with an unmistakable edge to it. "You just rolled over and accepted every lie that man fed to you. How can you want to kill him one day and take his orders the next?"

"You wouldn't understand," she said bitterly. "You saw that she was alive. How can I deny that? The one and only thing Arvin Sloane and I see eye to eye on is Nadia. Even I can see he would do anything for her. How can you stand there and yell at me when you saw her for yourself?"

"Oh, I saw her," Sark said coldly. "But what I can't see how you can believe _him_ when all he's ever done is lie to you. I have never lied to you, not _once_, and you still keep me at a distance. Why are you so blind when it comes to family?"

"How is this even about you?" Sydney said, incredulous.

"You made it about me when you volunteered me for a mission that has not a single shred of hard fact about it," Sark said. Leaves swirled around them and the wind blew cold against their cheeks. A strand of hair kept falling across Sydney's face and Sark forced himself not to reach up and tuck it behind her ear.

"We're supposed to break into a church run by a man that tried to kill you for a serum we don't even know exists, let alone does what Sloane says." He paused, watching the leaves progress down the rolling stream. "This has nothing to do with me, or Irina, Sydney. I have no business going on this mission with you. For someone who wants to push me away at any opportunity you're certainly taking advantage of me being around."

She opened her mouth for a quick retort but none came. Why had she assumed he would go with her? Because he was there…it seemed as if he had always been there, but in truth, he had been there are long as their interests had been aligned. They were partners, business partners…business partners that when they kissed she felt her blood rush in her veins and electricity in his touch. Had she thought he would go with her because she assumed he cared for her? Or was it for something far more chilling…that it was she that cared for him?

"Sark," she said, her arm reaching out. She found herself holding his hand; she hadn't even realized she was doing it. Seconds before, she had resisted, pulled against his touch and now she craved it, needed to feel him. "…please. This has nothing to do with you but it has everything to do with me. I need this. I need some semblance of a normal life once this thing with you and I is over. I don't know what we are…partners, at the very least."

She paused and though she wanted to avoid his eyes, those damn, depthless eyes, she forced herself to look into them.

"I need you. I can't do this by myself."

He stood, motionless, his lips slightly parted, studying her. He wanted to deny her…he found himself giving up so much with her. He wanted to hold back, make her stronger, and yet…God, he was so predictable when it came to Sydney.

"I have one condition."

Sydney's face was immediately wary.

"What is it?"

"A kiss."

She dropped his hand like a stone.

"A what?"

"One kiss, nothing more. A bargain for my impeccable services."

He didn't smirk. She tried to formulate words but she found herself stumbling.

"A kiss?" She asked in amazement. "After last night, you're asking me to kiss you?"

"Are you willing to do more? I'd me more than amenable for a little –"

"You're serious," she said disbelievingly. She looked up to the sky and sighed, but could not help but laugh. "Some things never change."

"I hope that some things never do," he countered. "I want to kiss you, Sydney. All I've ever wanted to do is kiss you. I want to kiss you in the middle of Paris. I want to kiss you in the middle of a park filled with people. One kiss and I'll do anything you ask of me."

Light filtered through the trees and onto his face, sincere and, as always, ever so disarming. She toyed with a strand that kept blowing across her face, stalling.

"This doesn't change the fact that what happened last night will never happen again," she warned.

"I wouldn't dream of besmirching our professional relationship."

"I'm serious," Sydney said. "It would be just…wrong. Last night was _wrong_."

"So wrong," Sark echoed. "So very, very wrong…" His voice trailed on suggestively.

"Sark," she said darkly.

"Yes, I know, Sydney. Listen, I'm not asking you to like me, let alone love me. I'm not asking you to get married. I'm not even asking you to sleep with me. I'm asking you for a kiss. One kiss. Surely one kiss is worth your sister's life."

A few seconds passed and Sark thought that, for a moment, she might refuse.

"Fine," she conceded. "But…here? Someone might see."

"I want them to see," Sark said, his hand already around her waist. She stared at his neck and strong line of his jaw where last night she had peppered kisses. His other hand swept the stubborn strand of hair that kept coming loose behind her ear. His hand traveled unhurriedly, tracing the line of her jaw and down her face. He lifted her chin, forcing her to gaze up at him. He made sure she looked at him, _really_ looked at him, before his lips descended, soft and slow.

Her cheek was cold under his hand but her lips were so warm and sweet. She was trying to respond as little as possible but he persisted, his curious mouth increasing the pressure. Sydney found her eyes closing and her lips began moving against his on their own. She matched him, as she always did when they fought, with equal force and skill. He kept it slow, luxuriating in the feel of her velvety lips against his. She didn't know how it happened but she opened her mouth…to breathe, perhaps, because she found her heartbeat growing rapid and her breath coming out in small gasps, and his tongue invaded her, swift and sure. Sydney was thinking about his hands and mouth on her the night before, how they had parted her and touched her, how their bodies fit together in a way where she barely could make out where she began and where he ended. Her hands tangled into his hair, gripping him, pulling him closer and Sark moaned softly against her lips. Their tongues danced, like so many quips between them, exploring and probing.

Sark's hands descended and found the edge of her jacket, pushing it upward and catching the edge of her shirt that pressed against the small of her back. His palm found the naked skin beneath and his fingertips traced the length of her spine and Sydney let out a small sound no louder than a sigh. His lips felt bruised but he couldn't stop himself from kissing her harder, faster, wanting to feel her, all of her, trembling against him. Sydney was losing herself in his touch, wanting his body to deliver the promises his mouth was making. She wanted to lose herself in him…but then her sister's image flashed through her brain, and Sloane's, and she stopped, resting her forehead against his. Her breathing was labored against his mouth and he waited, savoring the moment, before stepping away.

"We should probably start making arrangements to leave," Sark said, turning and resting his back and elbows against the railing of the bridge. "On the way back from Venezuela we can stop at Logan's and get the painting."

"Yes," Sydney said, leaning over the railing next to him, staring at the rushing water. "That sounds like a good idea."

"I don't know if it's a good idea so much as just an idea," Sark amended. He sighed. "We might as well start now. The faster this business with Sloane is finished the better I'll feel."

"You and me, both," Sydney replied. There was nothing she'd rather do than stand here, underneath the canopy of Parisian trees, watching the leaves being carried away in the rushing stream. But her sister needed her and Sydney wouldn't let her down again. They walked through the picturesque scene, appearing to anyone that passed a beautiful couple strolling through the park.

"Why do I feel like you're going to be the death of me?" Sark asked her, his hands in his pockets. They walked briskly; the air had a chill that it hadn't had before.

* * *

The church was impossibly old. A sprawling, stone monstrosity that sat in a forgotten inlet of the Playa Medina, La Iglesia de Almas Paerdidas was abandoned but had not fallen into disrepair. It was still imposing and impressive a house of worship as it was a fortress, holding Nadia's salvation somewhere in its depths.

According to Sloane's intel, the serum was in a room set aside for the sick, located in the heart of the building somewhere on the second floor above the main worship room. Sydney and Sark waited behind a dune of sand some hundred yards away, waiting for the guards at the entrance to call in for their hourly check in the all clear. The guards would then take a forty-five minute trek around the perimeter and report back in at the start of the next hour. The site was not a weapons facility, so the security was minimal but as a storage cache there could be more than two people baring their way. The two spies needed only to keep out of sight of whatever men Faust had inside and make their getaway. Should anyone get in their way, they only had one option: kill or be killed.

"This is a terrible plan," Sark whispered drolly, checking and rechecking his weapons. "I hope you realize that."

"I am fully aware how terrible it is," Sydney replied, her eye on the guards. The night air was thick with humidity and she felt beads of sweat rolling down her back. The black utility suits they were wearing provided cover but they did nothing to relieve the unseasonably oppressive heat that beat down on them. "I've just been going over in my mind all the other far more stupid plans I've gone in on and how they turned out alright, so that's been bolstering my confidence a bit."

"Well, I'm glad _you're_ feeling confident," Sark said, watching as the two guards at the back of the church checked their watches and one lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth, the words lost in the breezy, briny wind but their meaning was clear. The two men began their stroll around the perimeter and Sydney and Sark began creeping toward the church's door.

"That doesn't stop me from having a bad feeling about this," Sydney muttered, crawling through the voluminous foliage surrounding the church. She held her gun to her chest and looked furtively around, her back against the door.

"Sydney, we're in a church. What's the worst thing that could happen?" She cast him an exasperated look.

"Now, why'd you have to go and say _that_?" Sydney said, nudging the door open.

The great domed ceiling was covered with the cracked, peeling faces of angels. Candlelight illuminated every inch of the long, columned room, causing the shadows to move and undulate like living creatures. A circular, stained glass window dominated the wall behind the pulpit, depicting God creating the great green earth below him and the beatific blue heaven above. The sides of the church held similarly breathtaking biblical scenes captured in stained glass and the soft light from the moon shone down on the hand carved pews in a kaleidoscope of colors.

"Have anything to confess today, my child?" Sark whispered sardonically over his shoulder after passing the confessional. The room was clear but he still spoke quietly. Sydney, who was following him, nudged him none-too-softly in the back with the barrel of her weapon.

"I'd confess that I 'slept with a killer yesterday' to rid myself of the sin…if you weren't the farthest thing from a priest," Sydney muttered, her eyes sweeping the room as they passed from the nave of the church into a side hall.

"Funnily enough," Sark whispered back, mounting an ancient stone staircase. "I was going to confess to the exact same thing. What are the odds?"

They climbed the stairs, quickly and quietly. They found themselves in a large central room that held tapestries, book, and icons of saints. There were only enough candles to keep the room from being completely dark. The light danced off the splintered turquoise ceiling studded with gilt stars. The air smelt oppressively of incense and Sydney fought the urge to cough. At the far end of the room, an outline of a room shone brightly behind a partially closed door. Sydney took the lead and motioned for Sark to follow.

Later, she wouldn't remember how many steps it took to climb the stairs. She wouldn't be able to recollect how she left the intensely illuminated room and found herself back on the beach with Sark's hands gripping her shoulders and shaking her. She didn't remember how she had set the stone cathedral on fire. All she would be able to remember would her wracking sobs and the image of not one, but two dying men she had left behind in the burning church.

She found herself facing the illuminated doorway, her heart pounding. She didn't know why she was so scared…God, why was she shaking? Sark's eyes narrowed in concern, and she distantly felt his hand go to her back, steadying her, before turning around to cover her from the rear. Her knees felt weak…there should be no reason why. It was a door, the door separating her from Nadia's salvation. Why could she not bring herself to open it? Her hand went to the worn, painted surface slowly, and she willed herself to push it forward…

"Stop right there!" she heard Sark shout. Sydney pivoted, her weapon drawn. Sark had his gun pointed at a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs. It moved slowly, but surely, as if it knew the layout of the room and didn't need to watch its step around the multitude of books and papers that littered the floor. It came closer and Sark did not hesitate. Sydney heard the bullet leave Sark's gun despite the silencer, watched as it sliced through the air and slammed into the intended target, who stumbled, clutching at its chest.

Sydney did not move from the door. She watched Sark approach the target, his gun still drawn. Sark leaned down and pulled the man to a sitting position, the blood seeping through the man's white shirt. It was a man, Sydney could see, and as Sark gripped at him and pulled him forward into the light of a nearby candle, she knew Sark had brought the man she knew as Faust to his last minutes on earth.

"Ms. Bristow," Faust wheezed, his body now propped up against a chair. Sark kept his gun on him as his eyes surveyed the room for more insurgents.

"I rather thought I would die by your hand, instead of the boy's," Faust said weakly, the blood stain on his shirt growing larger and larger.

"You thought wrong," Sydney said thickly, wondering why she felt sorry.

"There is much to discuss, between you and I, but I'm afraid we don't have much time," Faust said, coughing. Blood spattered from the man's lips, coating his lips and teeth with crimson.

"There's nothing to discuss," Sydney replied, not moving, keeping her vigil at the outside of the door.

"The serum is behind that door," Faust said quietly, his voice growing fainter with every word. "You'll be able to save your sister. Your family will be reunited soon."

"What about your son?" Sydney didn't want to ask, but she needed to. A niggling thought pressed on her brain, a stunted whisper of an idea, but she couldn't think, couldn't process what it meant.

"He'll die," he said. Blood was now dripping to the floor, surrounding him in a red puddle. Faust's executioner loomed above him, a confused look on his otherwise angelic face. "Do you know why…why I help you? Why I come unarmed…ready to die?"

"No," Sydney said dully. She couldn't think; there was something here, something important she couldn't recall, couldn't put together.

"He would want me to."

"Your son? Now that I don't believe."

"How else was he going to see you again?"

Faust's breath came out in hitching, wet rasps. The final death rattle came out as a sigh, a sound of release and calm. The body shifted and slumped to the floor and Sark reached down and closed the handsome man's eyes. He stepped through the man's blood, leaving large footprints in his wake. Looking into Sydney's stunned face he gripped her shoulders lightly and turned her to face the doorway. Feeling Sark's strong body at her back did nothing to steady her. She felt like she was walking through a dream, her movements slowed and her breathing quickened. Sark's arm came across her to push the door open.

The modern medical equipment stood out against the stone walls of the ancient cathedral. The quick, thready beat of the heart monitor chirped in time with her pulse. The white hospital bed and the fluorescent lights practically blinded her after the soft candlelight. It took a moment for her eyes to focus, to see the man who had called her beautiful, the man who was dying, and the son Faust had risked everything to save only to die outside his door.

Sark stood in the doorway and let her walk on her own to the bedside, knowing she could only do this on her own. She walked slowly, not wanting to believe what she saw until she was staring directly down at him and could not deny it any longer.

Michael Vaughn's eyes were closed as if asleep, his face so familiar and yet so alien to the woman who would have bared his child. No, not Michael Vaughn, Andre Michaux, the man who had lied to her, made love to her, carried her in his arms and ultimately betrayed her. He looked the same as he did the day she watched him take round after round of bullets in the chest. The same, except for a jagged, red puckered scar that went across his stubbly neck.

Forgetting Sark was there her hands went to his hospital gown, ripping it across his chest. Unblemished skin met her hands and her fingers lingered on his chest, stroking the hair there. He had never been shot. _Another lie to pile on top of all the rest_. She didn't even notice when Sark had crossed the room and stood behind her.

He knew now it had been him on that green-gray day at the rusted carnival. It had been no nightmare; it had been the cold, hard reality that Sark stood underneath the stormy sky and slashed Michael Vaughn's throat. Felt the warm, thick blood of his enemy coat his hands and reveled in it. He watched the man whom he hated with every inch of his body crumple into a heap of his own lifeblood, his eyes accusing even as they dimmed. Sark had been the killer of a man who had yet to die.

Sark forced his gaze away from the man who had once been Michael Vaughn and his eyes swept the room, settling on a cabinet. He approached it and found three bottles of a clear, syrupy liquid, the label simply bearing a symbol he knew all too well: o

He opened a small container from a pocket of his jacket and placed the vials inside. A stoppered syringe came out of his pocket next and he placed the tip of the large needle into a small hole in the side of the box. Immediately the epoxy from the syringe began to mix with the resin-lined box and a thick, gray foam encased the bottles, securing them safely within the box. He zippered the box in a waterproof bag and tucked it into a pocket that he buttoned shut.

Sark heard her before he saw it. Sydney starting beating Vaughn's chest, punching his face, slapping and hitting every part of him she could get to. Sark gripped her hands but she pulled them out of his grasp, hitting Vaughn until blood poured from his noise. He did not wake. Sark repeated her name over and over but she didn't hear; all she could hear was the hard, satisfying sound of her fists hitting flesh and all she could feel was hate. Sark finally stopped her, gripping her hands with all the strength he had. She stopped and, like a ragdoll, fell into a heap on the ground.

She was rocking back and forth, her head in her hands. Sark was beside her in an instant, his hands on the sides of her face, trying to get her to look at him. She had bit her tongue in the fall and blood seeped out of her mouth.

"Sydney!" Sark was yelling, not caring there might be guards around. Her eyes were unfocused and tears were falling down her cheeks. He wiped them away as best he could and pushed the hair out of her eyes, trying to get her attention but she was far away. _She was with Vaughn, not Andre but Michael, the man she loved, on a tropical island. She was barefoot in the sand, holding Isabelle's hand…they would have called the baby Isabelle, after Michael's mother…_

"Sydney!" Sark slapped her face then and she finally looked at him. Her expression was a heartbreaking mix of hurt and shock and she looked at him, her visage akin to a sad, precious doll.

"Why?" She asked plaintively. She looked so lost. "Why…why…why…"

"Come on, Sydney," he said, scooping her up. He locked one arm behind her knees and the other around her shoulders and carried her like a child, away from the man who had destroyed her life. Sark turned around one last time; Sydney shivering in his arms, and stared at Agent Vaughn. The man was unconscious…it would be so easy to pull the pillow from under his head and smother him, or grab a syringe of morphine from the cabinet and jab the needle into his vein. He could torture him slowly; one cut at a time, hoping that underneath the coma Vaughn would suffer. Or it could be as easy as a tiny air bubble in the IV tube; but an air embolism would be far too kind for this man.

Sydney whimpered; a small, frightening sound and Sark turned his back on Vaughn for the last time, thinking that a long, drawn out death would be the most appropriate for his adversary. Her head lolled and the crying never stopped. She trembled in his arms, shaking as he spoke softly in her ear. He didn't even know what he was saying as he stepped over Bill Vaughn and carried her down the stairs and through the beautiful nave of the church.

They were finally outside and he deposited the shivering girl behind a sand dune. He pulled out his gun.

"The guards will be back soon," he told her, not knowing if she could hear him. "I need to take care of hem before they find out what we've done." She did not look at him, only continued to rock back and forth. He sighed, not wanting to leave her but knowing they'd be caught if he didn't kill the guards. He left, casting one last glance at his former adversary before he followed the path the guards had taken around the large perimeter surrounding the church. Ten minutes passed and then twenty. He was taking too long to find them; he was leaving her alone too long.

He caught up with them finally and, sneaking up from behind, shot them both in the backs of their heads. They fell like stones on the white sand, blood pooling up in the indentations their feet had made and slopping into the overturned pink shells surrounding them. Sark covered the bodies in large palm fronds and scattered new, unblemished sand over the blood spatter. It wasn't perfect but he needed to get back to Sydney.

He ran to her, tree limbs whipping across his face and shrubs tangling his feet as he went. He thought he smelled something burning and he pumped his legs faster, feeling the muscles burn with exertion, until he came to the clearing where the church stood.

Flames leapt up to the heavens, engulfing the towers. He watched the heavenly depictions explode as the stained glass windows shattered, spraying glass and flames in every direction. Sydney stood in the middle of the beach, watching the destruction, the tears never stopping. Sark approached her, shouting her name. When she didn't turn he turned her bodily to face him, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly.

"Sydney! What have you done?"

"It needed to burn," she said in a low, watery voice. She looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time since they entered the church. The flames reflected brightly against the unshed tears in her eyes, giving them life that was not there. "He needed to burn."

She stumbled then and this time he caught her before she fell. She tucked her head into the safe space between his neck and shoulder. He stood, holding her, watching as the ancient edifice burned to the ground. He didn't think she even noticed when he turned his back on it and began to walk away.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Twelve, Part One

1. Travis, "One Night". **Listen to when**: The morning after and discovering the note.

Lyrics: _Laying beside you as cold as a statue  
your hands are still warm  
trying to wake you as daylight brakes through  
the eye of the storm._

So you can tell everybody  
everybody who comes  
you can tell everybody  
but the damage's done  
the new day's begun.

One night can change everything in your life  
One night can make everything alright  
One night can turn all your colors to white  
One night - it's easier said than done

2. Monster Magnet, "Your Lies Become You". **Listen to when**: Sydney and Sark meet up with Sloane.

Lyrics: _Well you claimed you could read the future  
And I'd say that you've nailed that down_

You still want everyone to love you  
Well, here's a tip I might have to your big brain  
Do you really believe they can't see through?  
A circus punk playin' a foul game  
Let me cast you light, and it's natural  
And with me you can strike that pose, yeah  
And you melt for the camera, cuz your lies become you  
Yes your lies become you after all

How am I living without you?  
I'm not even sure now that I'm sane  
But this little dog's got enough sense  
To know not to sleep in the cold rain

3. Moses, "Beautiful Gun". **Listen to when**: Syd and Sark are in the park. (I am so in love with this song!)

Lyrics: _I haven't cried since 1985 but  
One look at you, tears are queuing to get out  
But I hold them, I hold them, I hold them, yeah_

Why do I whisper, do you sleep on a wire  
I tiptoe around you, around you, around you now  
Beautiful gun  
It's just the fate of the pretty to break those hearts  
So just sleep for awhile  
See if you smile while you're sleeping, you're sleeping  
Beautiful gun

I've never tried to be anyone else in my miserable life, but  
One look at you, wishes are queuing to get out  
But I hold them, I hold them, I hold them, yeah

I tried and I tried to make myself cry  
So hung up and dry on that wishing line, yeah  
Beautiful gun  
It's just the fate of the pretty to break those hearts  
So just sleep for awhile  
See if you smile while you're sleeping, you're sleeping  
Beautiful gun

Do you smile while you're sleeping? (Beautiful gun)

4. Moby, "Where You End". **Listen to when**: Sydney and Sark break into the stone church.

Lyrics: _Some things fall apart  
Some things makes you hold  
Something that you find  
Are beyond your control_

I love you and you're beautiful  
You write your own songs  
But if the right part is leaving  
Turned out to be wrong

If I could kiss you now  
I'd kiss you now again and again  
I don't know where I begin  
And where you end

Thought I fell in love the other day  
With an old friend of mine  
I was running kisses  
Down every inch of her spine

We had the roof down  
The sun came shining in  
The black fact is...  
that I was thinking of you

If I could kiss you now  
I'd kiss you now again and again  
I don't know where I begin  
And where you End

I slept in the sun the other day  
I thought I was fine  
Everything seemed perfect  
Until I had you on my mind

I tried to love you  
I did all that I could  
I wish that the bad now  
And finally turned into good

5. R.E.M., "Leave". **Listen to when**: Syd and Sark discover Faust's son, they flee the church, and watch it burn to the ground.

Lyrics: _Nothing could be bring me closer  
Nothing could be bring me near  
Where is the road I follow?  
to leave, leave_

It's under, under, under my feet  
The sea spread out there before me  
where do I go where the land touches the sea  
There is my trust in what I believe

That's what keeps me,  
That's what keeps me,  
That's what keeps me down,  
To leave it, leave it,  
Leave it all behind

Shifting the dream  
Nothing could bring me further from my old time  
Shifting the dream  
It's charging the scene  
I know where I marked the signs  
I Suffer the dreams of a world gone mad  
I like it like that and I know it

I know it well, ugly and sweet  
That temper madness with an even extreme

That's what keeps me  
That's what keeps me  
That's what keeps me down  
I say that I'm a bantam lightweight  
I say that I'm a phantom airplane  
That never left the ground

Lift me, lift me,  
I attain my dream  
I lost myself, I lost the  
Heartache calling me  
I lost myself in sorrow  
I lost myself in pain  
I lost myself in clarity,  
Memory, leave, leave

lift my hands, my eyes are still  
I walk into the scene  
lift myself in a different place  
just Leavin'

I longed for this to take me,  
I longed for my release  
I waited for the callin'  
To leave, leave


	20. Chapter 12, Part 2

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: HARD R (NOTE THE RATING CHANGE), for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline**: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: I feel like I am always apologizing for taking so long to post! I'm not even sure anyone is still following FWF, but for those you still with me, I am eternally grateful. It's not quite the end yet...the last chapter (how many parts it will contain, I don't know) will be chapter 13. Had to split the rest of chapter 12 into two parts, so make sure to read part 2 and then part 3, with the soundtrack as always at the end. As for the chapters' content, this chapter has been in the making since the very beginning. In fact, I built the rest of the story around the concepts introduced and explained in these two parts, some of which I'm not sure everyone will like. These chapters are very dialogue heavy and a lot of exposition is explained, so please excuse me for being so long-winded. That being said, please enjoy the rest of chapter 12, which contains a cure for the blackouts, the identity of The Messenger, and a cliff hanger ending that I will apologize for right now :-) Enjoy!

* * *

Sydney walked most of the way to the safe house of her own volition. She weaved drunkenly and dry faced down the shoreline, oblivious to everything except one foot plodding in front of the other. Only once did she succumb to the fusion of grief and wrath coursing through her. Like an ice pick, the pain shot clean and cold through her chest and she pitched forward into the sand. She held her hands up to her mouth but they felt foreign to her, like someone else's hands trying to choke the sobs from escaping her throat. She was making a hysterical sort of sound, and Sark was glad when it was drowned by the roaring crash of waves beating against the beach.

He called her name in an unsympathetic voice. Sark didn't bother to disguise the disappointment he felt for her. She wouldn't recognize it anyway and he'd just be lying to them both by masking it. He had initially lauded her impulsive decision to set the church on fire. He felt almost sympathetic for her need to burn her past alongside Agent Vaughn's failing body. He thought it was a cathartic holocaust, smoldering away the pathetic part of her that still thought herself a normal, simple girl. Now he saw it was a stupid, kneejerk reaction based on some insipid feeling she thought was love but Sark recognized as weakness.

"Sydney, you need to get up."

When she did not answer he searched himself for some shred of patience or sympathy and came up short. He grabbed her elbow and tugged her to her feet. She felt like a sack of bones, yielding to his touch. She let him pull her up but she wrenched her arm from his grip after she stood.

"Don't," she said softly, but with venom seeping into the small word. Sark felt slightly heartened. At least he still hated him and that was something.

The safe house was a small bungalow made of what looked like sea-worn wood. Overgrown foliage crowded the small deck and crept up the sides of the one story building. The dingy shutters were once white and the ramshackle clapboards blue. Set back from the beach, the house looked tumbledown but in fact boasted a bevy of surveillance equipment, high tech security, and enough firearms to aid a small militant army. But the most dangerous thing in the safe house was inside, waiting for them.

No doubt he had seen them coming, spying their slowly advancing forms in the security monitors in the cabin. He'd have watched out for them, for once in his self-serving life. He would know if they were being followed or not, though Sark knew no one was coming for them now.

Sark waited for Sydney to climb the few stairs to the doorway and watched her check her weapon. At least she was playing it smart. For even when he was saving your life, there was no trusting Arvin Sloane.

The light from the security monitors bathed Sark and Sydney's common enemy in an unearthly glow, illuminating the all flaws in his aging face. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and with no gun in sight, it would have been so easy to kill him. Sydney's hands felt slick with sweat and the one coherent thought that kept running through her mind was to shoot him. There would be an end there. A final, quantifiable conclusion, a small measure of closure in her miserable life. But without this possible cure for the fugue states, then there would be no Nadia. No Sydney. No Sark. Sydney surprised herself by still caring about these things.

Sydney lowered her gun. The muscles in Sloane's face twitched into a concerned smile.

"Sydney, you look unwell. Have you been hurt?"

When Sydney neglected to answer him, Sark reached into his pack and brought out the case containing the samples they had obtained from the hospital room in the church.

"She'll be fine," Sark answered for her. "How long will the formula take to make?"

Sloane stood and took the case from Sark. The bespectacled man stared down at the vials of clear, syrupy liquid and lightly traced his fingers over the cylindrical tubes.

"A few days," Sloane answered, still staring at the vials. "Perhaps a week. It is a delicate process...I need it perfect. You'd want no less than that, I'd imagine."

"You'll contact us when it is ready?"

"Of course," Sloane replied to his former employee. "And you're aware of the rendezvous point?"

"Don't waste my time asking pointless questions. I think it time for you to go on your way," Sark said in a low voice. "Please leave and contact us when it's finished."

"Very well," Sloane replied, moving to the door. He was already halfway out of the shack when he turned, gazing at Sydney's silent form.

"Sydney," Sloane called softly. "I need to know you're well. I couldn't leave in good conscience if you were sick or injured. Please."

"You've never done anything in good conscience," Sark replied, standing behind Sydney and looking over her shoulder to Sloane. "The sooner you leave the sooner you can begin making up for everything you've done to her. We need what you can provide for us, Sloane. But we don't need you."

A creepy smile formed on Sloane's lips.

"_We_, is it?" His tone was knowing. "I see. Goodbye, Mr. Sark. I'll be seeing you."

He swept out of the house before Sark could reply.

He hadn't even realized he had referred to themselves as "we". It was a small mistake, but a telling one. He sighed. He didn't know who he was more angry with: Sydney or himself. He glanced at her. She hadn't heard or perhaps didn't even care. She looked lost and tired.

"Get some sleep, Sydney."

She did bestow him a glance with those chocolate brown eyes of hers.

"I don't think sleep will help," she answered softly.

"No," Sark agreed. "But there's nothing else for you."

She turned from him then to a bedroom.

"Leave me alone."

She did not say it accusingly. It was a simple request, though something he wasn't sure he could abide.

* * *

He didn't ask her where she was going when she left. He waited for her return by reading a book, or at least, trying to. Sark found himself staring out the window, thinking he should have gone after her, knowing it would've been the last thing she would have wanted.

She returned after nightfall, her hands bloodied and raw. Sydney held her hands out to him and he rose from his seat and followed her to the bathroom.

He washed the bits of stone and colored glass from her wounds. It would hard to miss the mineral and stained glass that had made up Agent Vaughn's burning tomb. He bandaged her hands, taking great care not to put pressure on the abrasions there. She didn't go back to her room, however. She waited while he made dinner and accepted some when he gave it to her. He read his book while she stared out the window into the darkness and after awhile, she retired to her bedroom once more.

She left early the next morning. She took pains to be quiet but he heard the door creak and she was gone. This time, Sark didn't look out the window for her. She returned at dusk, smelling of copper pennies and salt. The wounds that had healed over bled fresh again and the bandages he had wrapped around her hand fell in tatters. He took her by the wrist and repeated the ritual; picking out the bits of rock, disinfecting the wounds, and bandaging them with clean linen.

Sark hadn't slept well that night. He felt a increasing pressure building behind his eyes. It was niggling at first and he let himself fall back asleep without a thought. Sometime around dawn, the pressure became pain. Sark let himself into Sydney's room. She was still asleep, her hands curled up into little first under her chin.

"Sydney."

She was awake in an instant, the gun she had hidden under her pillow already in her hand and pointed at his head.

"You can't go back today."

She didn't lower her gun at first. For a moment it could have been like old times: Sark staring down the barrel of Sydney Bristow's gun, marveling at her beauty and hoping to feel the sweet pain she inflicted when they fought. She slowly lowered the firearm but did not relinquish it from her grip.

"I would have thought you'd understand," Sydney said softly. Her long legs crept out from under the sheets, tan against white. Sark saw something in her eyes and he wanted it for himself. "You had made Michael show you Lauren's body. You needed to know it was over. You needed to know she was truly gone. I need to know, Sark. And I won't let you get in my way."

"I _do_ understand," Sark said. Sydney stared at him in the doorway. Like a ghost he haunted her threshold, pale and beautiful in the early morning light. "But you realize nothing has changed. Agent Vaughn was dead for these past seven months and he's still dead."

"Except that he wasn't dead," Sydney said stubbornly.

"To you, he was," he said. "And he still is. You can't scrape your hands to the bone trying to bring him back. Especially..." He paused. He seemed to be leaning heavily against the doorframe, steadying himself. Maybe she was deluding herself, but his voice seemed to waver. "I need you." It hurt him to say it more than he had realized. He thought he had no pride left when it came to Sydney. He was wrong.

She let out a harsh laugh. It came unbidden and against her will. It was a vestige of their former relationship, she couldn't help herself.

"You don't need me. You want me. There's a difference."

"I always want you," he conceded. "But, right now, I need you. I think you can fight it now that you know it's coming, You're better than it. I...am not."

"What are you talking about?"

"The headache. I can feel it. It's happening again. And soon."

She put the gun on the end table and stood up. Even in her torn tee-shirt and boxer shorts, Sark felt his heat for her flare up.

"I feel fine," she told him. She met him in the doorway. She put her hands to his face and he felt clammy and cold. He closed his eyes to her touch.

"I don't," he murmured.

"Come on." Sydney leads him to her bed, which she quickly makes. "Lie down."

Despite the growing pain behind his eyes, Sark grinned. "I'd never considered sex as a cure but I'd certainly be willing to try."

She didn't smile as he hoped she would but pushed him gently to the bed. She left, returning a few minutes later with handcuffs.

"You are the best nurse _ever_," Sark said, his vision starting to blur a bit. Sydney encircled one of Sark's wrists with the cuff and hooked the other to the headboard of the bed.

"What makes you think that I won't pass out too?" Sydney asked. "What if in my unconsciousness I find you here, defenseless, and I kill you?"

"I've got one hand free," Sark said shakily. He pressed his free hand to his head, willing the pain to fade. "I could slap you around a little bit."

"Seriously."

"Seriously? I think you can beat it. You've always been..."

The sentence cut off into a scream. It shattered the quiet dawn and Sydney hoped they were far enough away from civilization that no one would hear him. Sark gritted his teeth and caught his lower lip in the bite. Blood oozed from the cut on his mouth, dribbling down his chin.

"Look at me!" Sydney yelled, her hand on his chin. She stared into his eyes, trying to make him _see_. She brought him back from the darkness before and she damn well could do it again. His scream died down to a whimper and he _did_ see her, his gem blue eyes holding her in its wide-eyed stare. "Stay with me! Come on, Sark, please! Don't go! Don't go! Don't..."

As if someone had flicked off a switch, the life left Sark's eyes and she was staring into the husk of the man she once knew.

His eyes followed her as she moved from the bed and across the room but he did not speak. He had a vacant, empty smile on his face.

"Who are you?" Sydney asked, not really expecting an answer.

"I am the ghost in the machine," he answered, not in his usual, cocky drawl but in a robotic, flat intonation.

"Who are you working for?"

"I'll never tell."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to let me go."

He stared at her, unblinking, for what seemed like an eternity.

"Not a chance," she said hollowly. Sydney stood and left the room, unable to watch him in this condition.

The day went by slowly. She called Sloane and her enemy assured her the cure was well on its way to becoming a reality but he still needed a few days. She checked in on Sark occasionally and when she did she would find him there, staring at the door as if waiting for her. He wouldn't speak unless spoken to and when she would engage him in conversation he was polite, if not downright agreeable but there was _something_ missing. It was the spark, the devil in him, that was noticeably and Sydney found herself thinking, regrettably, absent. After she found the conversation going nowhere, she drew him a glass of water and left him a plate of food on the end table. She pulled the rocking chair from the front porch to his bedside and pointedly ignored his wide-eyed staring as she alternatively read a book and cleaned all the guns in the safe house.

She heard the crash before she saw him move. He held a shard of the glass cup in his free hand and in the dying light of the evening it flashed against the pale flesh of his captive wrist.

"Put it down," Sydney commanded, all while in her mind calculating the odds that she could knock the glass from his hands before he did something stupid. The gun was close, but not close enough to stop him. She stood slowly.

"Release me." Sark's voice was not his own. It sounded hard and mechanic, like pure steel had slid down his throat and was choking him. "I will take his life or you will let me go. There is no choice."

Sydney knew that he spoke the truth. She took one step closer and Sark pressed the glass harder against his wrist. She could see ruby red beads of blood welling up against the pressure. She wouldn't get to him in time. She held her hands up in surrender.

"Good," said Sark. "Get the key."

"I will not," Sydney said.

"Are you so cruel as to let this person die?" Sark's tone of voice was clinical, yet perplexed. He looked down at himself. "Do you not care for this body?"

"You wouldn't understand," Sydney said, disconsolate but resigned. "But _he_ would."

She thought he would make a sound as he slashed his wrist. A whimper, a moan...but he was silent and staring at her when he slashed Sark's wrist. He dropped the shard of glass and Sydney jumped on Sark's prostrate body. She ripped off a pillowcase and wrapped it tightly around the trickle of blood seeping from the wound. She gripped his wrist tight, trying to staunch the flow. She shut her eyes tightly, feeling hot and unwanted tears spilling from beneath her eyelids and down her cheeks. She pressed her forehead against his, feeling her sticky, sweat-laden brow against his.

The red blood against the white linen was not flowing as quickly as it had been. She needed to get the first aid kit, she needed to stitch him up quickly but Sydney was afraid to leave him, lest the _thing_ inhabiting Sark kill him.

"If I knew you playing Doctor meant you straddling me and handcuffing me to the bed," Sark said weakly. "I might have considered more drastic measures earlier than this."

Sydney let out a sound somewhere in between a sigh and a laugh.

"It's you!"

"Who else would it be?" Sark asked faintly.

"Not you." Sydney trailed off, reaching into her pocket to get the handcuff key. She quickly released him and he brought his injured wrist close to this chest. She chanced a glance at him and blanched at how ashen his face looked, at how strained his breathing sounded.

"Don't die before I get back," Sydney said only half joking, turning away from him quickly and wiping the tears from her face as she dismounted him. _Where had the tears come from?_ She tried not to think so much about it as she sprinted from the room. The first aid kit was where he had left it, next to the sink in the bathroom. She could see a faint pink residue around the basin, the watered down blood from her ruined hands. Her clean bandages were stained with blood again.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to wash away all the blood on her hands.

Sydney returned to her partner and he held his arm out to her. She took his hand as gently as he had taken hers when it had been filled with broken pieces of the church. He did wince now as she was closing up the cut; more than a small part of Sydney was grateful for that. She stitched up the wound as delicately as possible but he would have a scar there.

"Wouldn't be the first scar you gave me," Sark said thickly, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. His eyelids drooped as he struggled to stay awake.

"Won't be the last," Sydney replied.

"Do you think we will still be killing each other? After this is all over?" Sark asked, his mouth working very hard to form the words exactly right. He heard his words slurring at the end and his vision swam.

"You could try, but you could never kill me," Sydney replied, sounding stronger than she felt. Truth was, Sark looked terrible; his grey pallor against the blood of the sheets was terrifying. "I don't think people in our field expect anything to last very long, but...I think we'll be killing each other for a long time." She had finished stitching up the torn flesh of Sark's wrist and was finishing the bandage.

"I'll let you catch me one day," Sark murmured. His head lolled to one side and he fell into a deep slumber. Sydney let her head sink into her hands. If he had died, if he had gone cold on her bed, surrounded by his own blood...she felt...she felt...

Sydney's cell rang shrilly in the still afternoon. She fumbled in her pocket, not believing when she saw it but realizing how badly her hands were shaking.

"Hello Sydney."

"Sloane." Sydney's voice was ice.

"You sound upset," Sloane said. Maybe she was imagining it, but it seemed his concern was mixed with mirth.

"Me? Upset? Couldn't be," Sydney replied as airily as she could. "What's the progress?"

Sloane chuckled. "Impatient, are we, Sydney? You'll be relieved to know the formula is almost complete. Meet me at the rendezvous point in three days at noon."

"I need your assurance that this will work." Sydney glanced back at the bedroom, where Sark had fell back into his sickly slumber. Somehow she knew that he would not survive another blackout. There was no medical reasoning that guided her opinion. Pure emotion drove her. She wasn't sure what it would drive her to do but she knew she couldn't have Sark die like this. She wouldn't let him.

"I have a demonstration that I feel will be most convincing."

"We'll be there."

* * *

Sark slept for the next day and a half and was taking food and water the night before they were to meet Sloane.

"If you think I was going to stay behind while you meet with Sloane then you are delusional," Sark said, nursing some tepid broth. He picked up his spoon and let the liquid drip back into the bowl, all with a disgusted look on his face. "By the way, you really are the worst cook imaginable."

"I'm sorry, would I be more or less delusional than a person who slashed his own wrist while he was brainwashed?" Sydney asked dryly, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She was standing over his bed like a sentinel, assessing his progress and obsessively monitoring his symptoms.

"A person can hardly be responsible for his actions while under brainwashing," Sark replied unconcernedly. "Besides, it's not as if I did a very good job of it."

"A good enough job," Sydney muttered, wondering how much of Sark's talk was strength or how much was bravado.

"This is a non-issue," Sark said, pushing himself up from the bed. He winced at the pressure put on his wrist. "I am going to get a shower. You will not listen at the door to make sure I don't drown myself. We will go see Sloane tomorrow and we will either listen to what he has to say or, if we don't like it, we could kill him. But before this you will go to sleep, because frankly, you look terrible."

"Gee, thanks," Sydney muttered, stifling a yawn. Truth was, she didn't get much sleep. She would wake herself out of her light slumber to make sure Sark was still breathing.

"Sydney, you know I am always the first person to tell you how good you look," Sark said rationally. He slowly made his way across the room and stood next to her in the doorway. "So take it as truth when I say you could use some beauty rest."

Sydney secretly hoped that on the way to the bathroom he would trip and fall on an errant knife lying around. It would save her from worrying about him tomorrow.

"Remind me to let you kill yourself next time you black out," Sydney dryly replied.

"As if you'd need reminding," Sark answered, turned to leave, then stopped. He moved slowly and grabbed her hands. He gave it a squeeze and held on to it, his fingertips caressing her palm. She had always liked his hands and she savored the touch, as brief as it was.

"Thanks," she said softly.

_That_ made him smile.

"Sydney..."

"I know," she answered before he could speak. She knew he was thankful for saving him. She just didn't think she could bare to hear him say it.

* * *

The wind blew warm around Sydney's face, blowing her hair into a halo around her crown. Sark put his arms around himself and shivered, finding himself cold despite the balmy weather. The waves pounded the beach, spraying them in a fine mist. Sark turned his back on it, choosing to watch Sydney as she watched the dunes, waiting for Sloane.

Sark felt weak. From the blood loss, undoubtedly, but he felt it was more than that. He scratched at his bandages, wondering how much time he had left. He felt like the life was slowly being leeched from his body. With each attack of the sickness he felt as if he was being forced out of his own body...and something foreign and wrong was taking up residence. Suppose Sloane had no cure? Sark thought he might find some latent satisfaction in killing the man, but he'd be digging his own grave. He had led a wicked life, and led it well, but Sark wasn't about to let it go without a fight.

"I think we should prepare ourselves for disappointment," Sark said. She didn't reply. He stepped closer, placing his hand lightly on the small of her back. "Sydney..."

"I'm always prepared for disappointment," she quickly replied. "But sometimes...sometimes I just can't help letting some hope come through."

"I know," Sark sighed. "It is really your only detriment as a spy. You are almost perfect."

"I like to think it is the only thing that kept me human," she said softly.

He was staring at her back, wondering how long he was going to be able to drink her in before he lost her again, when movement on the dune caught his eye.

"There," he said pointing. A pair of delicate hands separated the reeds and grass dotting the sand. The sun caught her face, a mane of luxurious dark hair surrounding a heart shaped face. Sark knew the face well. She had Irina Derevko's haughty beauty and Arvin Sloane's mysterious grin. The dark circles under Nadia's eyes did not deter from her loveliness.

"Nadia," Sydney whispered softly, not quite believing her eyes. She took a step closer to her sister, and then another, and then she was running. "Nadia!" The two sisters embraced tightly, and then Sydney pulled back to get a good look at her half sibling.

"You look great," Sydney said, her voice somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Wish I could say the same about you," Nadia replied. "You look terrible."

"_Told_ you," Sark muttered. Nadia turned her head and Sark noticed that while he could see each of her parents in Nadia's features, the woman's eyes were purely her own. Her gaze slid to his wan face, his bloody lip, and the bandage on his wrist, appraising them, before pinning him with her eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Sark."

"Miss Santos." Her tone was surprisingly neutral. Sark could still vividly recall looking down at Sydney's sister's face, her eyes moving wildly under closed lids while her hand held onto a stylus, penning the words of Rambaldi. He recalled Lauren's feverish excitement mounting while watching the almost alchemic process of Nadia's undoing. His own feelings of the incident were more of the detached sort. He lacked any real feelings for the woman. Drugging her and forcing her to be the conduit to Rambaldi was business. The only real problem he had about the whole incident was that he couldn't look directly at her for long while she was under the drugs...she looked so damn much like Sydney.

"I would've thought she would have killed you by now," Nadia said conversationally. Sark's eyebrows lifted in amusement. Nadia toyed with her necklace, a gaudy number with a large, dark stone.

"I think you overestimate her," Sark said, knowing he was wrong.

"I think I underestimated you," she said. She graced him with a smile, a genuine and surprising gesture that left Sark momentarily speechless.

"Oh, I don't know, dear," a voice came from over the dunes. Arvin Sloane's speech carried over the salty sea breeze. "I found that Mr. Sark will always carry out a mission, once he's given the proper motivation."

He sauntered over the dunes and joined the group, reaching over to squeeze Nadia's hand briefly before addressing them again. "I believe you will find proof that the cure is viable through our dear Nadia here."

Sydney crossed her arms over her chest, her expression shifting from happiness to hostility. "So, you're telling me the same serum that brought Nadia back is the same that will stop us from blacking out?" Sydney's voice was unsympathetic.

"No," Sloane replied, his voice no unlike when a schoolteacher tries explaining a difficult math problem to a small child. "The formula from the painting cured Nadia. That serum mixed with the one from Bill Vaughn's church is what will cure you. It appears as if Mr. Sark is more in need of it than you at this point, but nevertheless."

Sydney glanced at Sark, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at her sister, a serious look on his face. He moved quickly, too quick for her to see what he was doing until the gun was pointing at Sloane's chest.

"Whoa, whoa!" Sydney said, holding her hands up. Nadia looked confused but not frightened. It was only then that she noticed that Sloane was smiling.

"I'm surprised it took you this long to see," Sloane said, smirking. Sydney's heart was beating out of her chest but Sark looked cool and calm.

"Someone is going to tell me what is going on _right_ now," Sydney threatened.

"Dad?" Nadia looked to her father, but Sloane's attention was all on Sark.

"I believe Mr. Sark is admiring the necklace you have on, dear," Sloane said airily, as if he didn't have a Walther PPK aimed at his throat. Nadia's hands quickly went to the black stone encircling her neck.

"I don't understand, my Dad just gave this to me," Nadia said quickly, looking to her sister to talk some sense into Sark. "Sydney, please, tell him he needs to put the gun down."

But by now, Sydney had looked at the necklace and she _knew_. The Heart of Darkness hung around Nadia's neck. The necklace Sark had sent to The Messenger.

"It's _you_?" Her voice cracked in disbelief...and in anger. "It's been YOU this whole time?" She rushed at him, oblivious to Sark and the gun. She knocked Sloane into the sand and began hitting him, over and over. She felt the crunch of bone as her fist connected with his nose. Blood spurted from his nose and into his mouth. Every feeling of hatred she had felt for Arvin Sloane pumped out of her as she pummeled him. Her face was coated in salty tears and her hands were covered in blood.

"How could you?! After everything you've done to me?! Why? Why?! WHY?!"

"Sydney! Stop it!" Nadia was pulling on her sister's arm, pleading with her, but she couldn't pull her away.

"Sydney, please!" Sydney could hear her sister's voice, but it sounded faraway. She felt hands on her but they were as light as butterfly wings compared to her fury. She saw nothing but Sloane.

"Sydney, _stop_." Suddenly she was being lifted against her will by strong arms. Sark held her arms in front of her, his gun lying in the sand, forgotten. Nadia swooped in over her father, bringing him up to a sitting position so he wouldn't choke on his own blood. Sark shook her slightly but she couldn't look at him; she couldn't stop the tears streaming down her face. She looked down and could see he was bleeding through the bandages on his wrist again. He removed his hands from her wrists and put his gently on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him.

"Sydney, please. Control yourself. You'll kill him before we get answers." She gripped at the front of his shirt tightly, unable to control her breathing. She felt herself hyperventilating, torn between wanting to rip Sloane's throat out or Sark's. How could he not _see_? He should understand that this is what she wanted, what she _needed_. She was beginning to see spots in front of her eyes and she struggled against his hands, but he held on to her.

"Sydney. You are going to pass out if you don't stop hyperventilating," Sark said, more calmly than she thought possible. Her head was spinning and her knees began to buckle. "I know you want to hurt him, and you have, but you can't do this in front of his daughter. In front of your _sister_. She would never forgive you. Breathe. Here," He disengaged her hand from his shirt and placed the palm of her hand against his chest. She felt the ridges of his muscles underneath his shirt, felt the steady beat of his heart in her hand. His chest rose up and down with the weight of his breath.

"Feel me. Feel my breath. Make yours like mine." She nodded mutely and forced air into her chest, mimicking the feel of his breathing. He placed his hand on top of hers, feeling it go up and down with each inhalation. After a few moments she felt her heartbeat returning to normal and her breathing take on a regular pattern.

With her hand still on his chest and his hand on hers, Sark leaned in close to her ear. "You need to take care of this. And if you don't do it in a civilized manner, I will do it for you. We need him alive if you want to see your parents again."

She leaned in, resting her head on his. "I know," she sighed. "But I can't promise you that once this is over that I won't..."

"At that point, do what you need to do. I certainly wouldn't stop you."

Sydney lifted her head from his and turned to see her sister gaping at her.

"Are you going to take a break from beating the shit out of my father to tell me what the _hell_ is going on here?" Nadia's question came out ragged and accusatory.

"Nadia, for months, we, I mean, Sark and myself, have been receiving threats and missions from someone named, 'The Messenger,'" Sydney started, approaching her sister. Sloane was spitting out globs of blood into the sand. "The Messenger has been holding my father and our mother captive for months now. We've been...procuring things for him, in hopes he would release them. One of the last things we sent him was _that_ necklace, the Heart of Darkness."

Nadia's hands again went to the necklace and her eyes went to her father.

"Dad?" Her voice was questioning, tinged with doubt. "Tell me this isn't true."

"Well dear, then I'd be lying," Sloane said through gritted teeth. Sark noticed that his daughter did not help the middle aged man to his feet. Sloane pinched the bridge of his nose and dusted some of the sand off his pants. "And we both know that not lying was going to be my New Year's resolution."

"Dad, this is not the time for jokes," Nadia said seriously. "If you don't start talking right now, your nose is going to look a lot worse than it does right now."

"I think," Sloane said deliberately. "The answer you seek is nearby. If you'd indulge me for approximately 20 minutes, I think all will be explained."

"I've waited six months," Sydney said through gritted teeth. "I don't think I have enough patience left in me to wait any longer."

"You don't have any choice," Nadia told her sister. "I won't let you pummel him until he has a chance to clear things up."

"And what if things don't get cleared up?" Sydney said, the anger creeping back into her voice. "She's _your_ mother too, you know. Don't you want to know she's safe? Wouldn't you want to know if it was your own father holding her against her will?"

"I can assure you that is absolutely _not_ the case," Sloane told them. "But I'll let you decide that when I show you the evidence to the contrary. Please, it's not far. We'll walk." He held out his hand for Nadia, which she ignored.

"Sloane and I will go ahead," Sark said, picking up the gun he had dropped. He pointed it at Sloane, motioning the man to start walking. "I think you ladies need some time to catch up." Sark nudged Sloane with the tip of the gun barrel and the older man trudged forward, casting one last beseeching glance at the two women.

Sydney and Nadia walked behind them, neither set of eyes leaving the duo as they led the way.

"Sooo...," Nadia started in a pretty good imitation of an airy tone of voice. "What's new with you? Did you get highlights? I love what you're doing with your hair."

Sydney laughed, wiping the last of her tears away. "Nah, it's still the same," Sydney answered, savoring the easy banter. "Haven't had time to hit the salon. I am letting my bangs grow in, though. I'm surprised you noticed, what with all the bloodshed and mythical prophecies and what not."

"Well, Sydney, let me tell you. Being in a coma has made me really observant," Nadia said matter-of-factly. "I'm your sister. I notice the important stuff. Like...like what the hell is going on between you and that homicidal maniac."

Sydney's sister's voice lost its playful tone. She didn't turn to face Sydney; they both were too busy making sure an accidental (or maybe not so accidental) shooting didn't occur.

"He's..." Sydney trailed off. She didn't know what he was. A friend? No, not really. Nothing between them was ever friendly. A lover? Well, yes, definitely, but that was complicated. An enemy? He was, once. But now? She didn't have a simple answer for her sister. "He's my partner. He's been helping me for months now. He saved my life, Nadia. And I've saved his. More than once and that's something you just can't ignore."

"What I can't ignore is that fact that this man _tortured_ me," Nadia said icily. Sydney felt the barely contained anger in her sister's words. "He injected me with _poison_. I could have _died_. And you take up with him like you guys are best buds?"

"You forget it was your father that paid him to do it," Sydney replied softly. She couldn't be angry with Nadia. Sydney knew better than anyone how easy it was to overlook the faults of your family. "And you forget everything your father has done to me."

"How could I forget that?" Nadia's voice was strained. "I'm reminded of it every time I look at you. But this is different, Syd. This is _Sark_. He's a killer and a liar."

"He's never lied to me," Sydney said quietly but with conviction. "And that's more than I can say about...well, everyone."

"The way he looks at you," Nadia continued. "it's like he's starving."

Sydney tried to shake off the imagery of Sark Nadia had presented her, but it was hard. She did notice the way he fixed on her. It was no longer common leering as it once had been; his cobalt eyes, filled with lust, used to sweep across her body eagerly. Now, it seemed like he was savoring her. The subtle difference might be lost on some, but not on her sister apparently...and not on herself.

"I need him," Sydney said simply, shrugging her shoulders.

"You've never needed anyone," Nadia fired back.

"Maybe," Sydney answered. She sighed ruefully, her eyes on Sark's back and not her sister. "I might have been able to do this on my own. I might not have. But I think I just didn't want to be alone anymore."

Nadia didn't reply and the two sisters walked along the beach, their faces turned away from the spray of the ocean.

"We're here." Sloane's voice carried over the salty wind.

Sydney and Nadia crossed over a large dune to face a cove, where a small dwelling lay nestled in the inlet. It was a house, small but beautiful in its simplicity. Off the painted white porch a dock jutted out into the water. Sydney was surprisingly reminded of the imaginary home she would had shared with Vaughn when she had imagined their life together.

"Your answer lies within," Sloane said ominously, pointing to the hut. Sydney pulled out her gun and Sloane shook his head. "You won't need that." Sydney narrowed her eyes at him and nodded to her sister. Her sister pulled out a firearm Sydney didn't know she had. Either Nadia trusted Sark enough to keep the weapon on her father or she just didn't trust her father enough. Sydney thought it was the latter.

Sark watched the two women approach the door with a feeling that something was about to break. There was a stretching of time, and perhaps of his sanity, when he felt he was on the precipice of something great and terrible. The sisters separated; Nadia going around the back and Sydney approaching the front.

"You will remember this moment forever," Sloane said softly to Sark.

"Shut your mouth," Sark retorted, his eyes on Sydney's retreated figure instead of his hostage.

"This is the moment where everything you know turns out to be wrong," Sloane continued, his voice taking on an eerie, omniscient tone. "You will gain back your free will, but, in the end, you'll lose the only thing that's important."

"Oh, and what's that?" Sark wasn't really listening to Sloane. He was watching Sydney reach for the door handle of the cottage, seeing it open from the other side before she could stop it.

"Her."

The door pushed open from the other side slowly and Sydney scrambled back, her gun pointed at the shadowy figure.

"Put your hands up and step out slowly!" Sydney saw the hands emerge first, then a slender wrist and lean arm. Nadia ran from the rear of the building to stand beside her, her gun also pointed at the emerging person.

"Please, put down your guns, lower your weapons," came the voice from the house, low and commanding. But the voice didn't match the figure now stepping through the doorway, a shapely woman with chestnut hair and devilish eyes. Eyes that everyone assembled knew all too well.

"Mom?"


	21. Chapter 12, Part 3

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: HARD R (NOTE THE RATING CHANGE), for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline**: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: Part 3 of chapter 12.

* * *

Irina Derevko stepped out of the darkness and into the light. Nadia rushed to her mother and the older woman enveloped her in a tight embrace. Sydney simply stared at her mother, not really believing her eyes. She turned to Sark, who was slowly leaving Sloane behind. He came and stood by Sydney's side.

"What are you waiting for?" He asked her quietly, and she inclined her head toward him. Irina looked up from Nadia and regarded the two of them with some indescribable emotion. It was somehow a cross between curiosity and amusement and she beckoned them. It wasn't until the door behind Irina swung open to reveal Jack Bristow did Sydney finally find the strength to move.

Sydney ran to him and without a word took her in his arms. Hugging him was not as familiar as it should have been and it felt out of practice and foreign. It felt like being away from home for a long time only to return and find it exactly how you had left it and it had only been yourself that had changed.

"Are you well?" Sydney asked against his shoulder, her voice muffled. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," Jack replied, disentangling himself from his daughter. He smiled his wan smile. "Actually, he helped us, for what it's worth." Her father's smile didn't reach his eyes and Sydney knew something was off. Jack was holding an ice pack. He tossed it to Sloane, who caught it deftly, and placed it on his bloody and swollen face. Sydney stepped away from her father and glanced at her mother.

"I think some answers are in order," Irina said. "Sloane, please get out the antidote. We'll administer it and then I think you'll find the answers you are looking for."

"No," said Sark, speaking for the first time. The whole contingent turned to the Brit, who had crossed his arms in front of his chest, as if to protect himself. "I've waited 6 months for answers and I'd like some immediately."

"Julian," Irina started to say, but Sark cut her off.

"_Don't_ call me that," Sark bit back at her. "You only call me that when you're trying to manipulate me, which only furthers my opinion that something is severely wrong with this picture."

"I think I taught you _too_ well," Irina murmured, thought not unkindly. There was something like pride in her voice.

"Sark," Sydney said seriously, turning to her partner. "I think we should take it now. You can't afford to wait any longer. Not after..." Sydney let her voice drift off, though everyone on the pier knew for the most party what the pair had been through. Sark stared daggers at her, but in the end relented, as he felt he always did with Sydney.

Sloane handed the syringes of antidote to Nadia, who unceremoniously stuck both Sydney and Sark in the muscle and meat of their biceps. Sark felt no different and tendrils of doubt began to unfurl in his mind. He knew the truth of the serum would only come with time but he couldn't help feeling that his life was rushing by him quickly and he would be met with a bloody and untimely end.

When neither of them showed any signs of immediate distress, Sark addressed his mentor.

"I think the time for answers has come," he said coldly. "I think we deserve them."

Irina started to walk to the end of the pier, where the dock extended and several wooden chairs sat. She didn't wait for anyone to follow, but they all did, as it always was when Irina Derevko led. Sydney watched as Nadia surprised Jack with an unexpected hug and had the distinct pleasure watching her father blush uncomfortably. She, too, knew something was wrong but the feeling was overshadowed by intense relief of seeing her father and mother in good health. They reached the end of the dock and Irina sat in one of the chairs. Sloane sat, too, but everyone else deigned to stand.

"Where is The Messenger?" Sark was apparently leading the inquisition.

"The Messenger is here," Irina said cryptically.

"_Who_ is The Messenger," Sydney cut in, anxious to know what she was already beginning to suspect.

Her father sighed. He looked serious and resigned, a mixture of emotion Sydney always looked upon with dread. "We three are The Messenger."

Sydney shut her eyes against the words, but they kept reverberating against the inside of her skull. How could she have let this happen again? How could she have been so _blind_? Why was she so ignorant of treachery when it was based within her own damn family? She felt small and insignificant, as if she hadn't been deemed important enough to handle the truth from her own parents.

"You must understand, if there had been any other way," her father started, but Sydney cut across him.

"There is _always_ another way," Sydney spat at him. "...than lying to me. But that's always the first thing the two of you think of, isn't it? Too damn concerned about yourself and your own plans and feelings to see how it affects other people. And if it's your own children, all the better, because they _understand_ the way things are with people like us. Well, I _don't_ understand, I'll _never_ understand the two of you, and I'll never forgive you for putting us through this."

"Sydney," Irina replied, a smile on her face. "We've been over this before. You have to trust that we know what's best for you."

"That's the whole point," Sydney yelled back. "There is no _trust_ here! I am a grown woman, capable of knowing what I am doing instead of being your damn pawn! You couldn't just _ask_ us to get all this...this _stuff_ for you? Why couldn't you just get it for yourself? We could've been killed on this whole grotesque misadventure!"

"We were looking out for you the whole time," Irina chided. "But there were some...unforeseen difficulties."

"Unforeseen difficulties?" Sydney shrieked. It looked as if she was beginning to go on a tirade, so Sark interrupted.

"Perhaps it would be best to start from the beginning," he said through gritted teeth.

"Then the beginning starts with me," Jack said, his voice as serious and monotone as Sark had ever heard it. "And with my overprotection of Sydney. After Laura," Jack blanched, recognizing his mistake. He pushed on, conscious of Irina's hot gaze on him. "...Irina was out of the picture, and of course before as well, Sydney was, and continues to be, my number one priority. I wanted her to be her own person and wanted _no one_ to be able to manipulate her to their advantage. I started Project Christmas for her."

"And I," Irina cut in. "Couldn't bare for my other child to be anyone but her own person. So Nadia received the Project Christmas indoctrination. And Sark," Irina said with more warmth in her voice than Sark was used to. "He became...more than a simple asset to me. I felt he deserved the same kindness for all he had done for me and would do for me in the future."

Sark felt an emotion coursing through him he couldn't quite name. It was part intense loyalty, something that was usually reserved for Irina anyway. But it was part affection as well, for a mother figure that wasn't ever entirely loving.

Jack continued then, the anguish clear in his usually inexpressive face. "I know more than anyone that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I knew that innocent children would be turned into sleeper agents. I knew that these agents would not be able to be brainwashed by other agencies to their advantage. They were to be perfect, loyal soldiers for the United States. That is, until your mother," Jack put a strange emphasis on the word "mother", like it was dirty. "... appropriated the project for her own country, and the process was disseminated to other countries from that.

"The program Irina and the United States government was a bastardized version of the I put Sydney through, so Sydney is the one, true archetype. So there are thousands of people roaming the earth with this programming running through their brains, some activated into service, others not. But the blueprints were there, waiting to be accessed.

"Meanwhile, or should I say before this programming came about, a group named Prophet 5 was formed."

Sydney visually stiffened. Her murder of Vaughn was fresh on the forefront of her mind, as was his betrayal.

"It started with Bill Vaughn's father, Bertrand Micheaux., also known as Timothy Vaughn. There had been whispers of a incomplete prophecies made by five separate prophets in completely different time periods. Rambaldi, Mother Shipton, Erik Jan Hanussen, Nostradamus and Rasputin all had incomplete prophecies that Hitler and his occultists somehow cobbled together to form one complete and terrifying prediction. He commissioned the painting and became obsessed with finding this ultimate weapon that would bring hell on earth and ultimate power to whomever wielded it."

"_The weapon will be given to a man unto a million children are born_," Irina intoned softly. "_A heretic to our dogma, the Disbeliever will be the life giver of ultimate power. All souls will fall under his supremacy and weep with despair, for no flesh will be spared under his most devastating command. The innocent will be his soldiers and the guilty will fall to their knees for mercy, for all children are his children until the sky turns black and the world falls dead around him_."

"Well, that isn't horrifying in the least," Sark muttered, not to anyone really.

"Are you the man?" Sydney asked her father. "The Disbeliever?" She felt she should know better by now; that prophecies were the mindless litany of power hungry zealots. But when it concerned her family, how could she ever be sure they wouldn't come true?

"No," Jack said at the same time Irina said, "Yes."

"It doesn't matter if he is or he isn't," Irina continued. "It's the fact that the Micheauxes, who were already Rambaldi obsessed, thought they could and would be the wielder of the weapon. They thought that the Project Christmas kids were their weapon."

"But I thought the whole point of Project Christmas was the inability to be brainwashed," Sydney said questioningly.

"It was," Jack said, the weariness evident in his voice. "But think of the Project Christmas indoctrination as a radio frequency that is only accessible to the person's respective government. What if someone found a way to tap into the frequency? Thousands, perhaps millions, of lethal men and women, in every country and every walk of life, under the control of one man?"

"It's insane," Nadia whispered. Sydney watched Sloane turn to his daughter with a curious expression on his face, but it quickly returned to its normal appearance.

"You are the last piece, Sydney," her father told her. "You were to be studied and primed without taking you out of your normal lifestyle. If you could be conquered then all the Project Christmas children could be conquered and used to whatever end Bill Vaughn and, eventually, Michael Vaughn, felt best. So Andre Micheaux was sent to become a friend, a trusted confidante, and eventually a lover to watch your progress and report back to his father's organization."

"What the Micheauxes didn't know," Sloane interrupted. "Was that there was a man, a contemporary to Rambaldi named Archdeacon Claudio Vespertini. Vespertini feared the implications of the technologies defined in Rambaldi's belief system: that science would someday allow us to know God. He attempted to pursue and destroy everything he could find and keep the name of Rambaldi invisible.

"Moreover, he wished to use his considerable power and intelligence to make all of Rambaldi's prophecies inert," Sloane continued seamlessly. "The formula encoded within the painting of 'The Five Prophets' was taken from a manuscript of Vespertini that was hidden away after Alexander VI died and later put into the painting as a failsafe if the prophecy should every come to pass. It was then that Vespertini ordered the name Rambaldi erased from all inscriptions between 1470 and 1496 and had the prophet's workshop in Rome destroyed. Rambaldi made no more predictions between the time his primary workshop was burned and his death in the winter of 1496. Vespertini sent what he thought were trusted men to burn a secondary workshop in San Lazzaro, which they did, but not before selling and trading the remainders of Rambaldi's work for whatever money Vespertini's men could get, as if the works had no value whatsoever. The unfinished prophecy of this ultimate weapon was among these manuscripts, as well as the journal that contained the page 47 prophecy and a majority of the 22 remaining Rambaldi artifacts, of which we are all very well acquainted with."

"So Vespertini came up with this formula in the 1400's," Sydney said slowly, not quite believing the influx of information being laid at her feet. "And this formula will...do what? Reverse the effects of Project Christmas?"

"No," Irina interjected. "You will always be under the influence of the Project Christmas indoctrination. You will never be able to be brainwashed. The serum we have to give you today will simply sever the frequency that would put you under the influence of the Michaeuxes."

"The Micheauxes are dead," Sydney said dully. "Vaughn was alive but I killed him." Jack, Irina and Sloane shared a look that the younger three people in attendance did not understand.

"I took care of Bill Vaughn," Sark supplied, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"Be that as it may," Jack continued, as if this information was not at all significant. "The Prophet Five organization is still very much active but is unaware of the formula Vespertini had concocted. That is why, very unfortunately, we had to go about getting the ingredients in this roundabout way. Whatever the two of you knew, especially Sark since he is more susceptible to Prophet 5's callings, Prophet 5 would know if they controlled you long enough to get back to them. So we let you think that we were in danger and the two of you acted as two would under the circumstances of your loved one's disappearances. Prophet 5 went unaware that they two of you were secretly collecting the ingredients that would sever your ties to them. They continued to observe you from afar and you came out of the situation...relatively unharmed."

"This doesn't add up," Sydney said, shaking her head. "What about the attack on Sark's New York apartment? If Prophet 5 didn't want us dead, and neither did you as The Messenger, who did that?"

"Just as there are extremists who follow the works of the five prophets," Jack said. "There are extremists whose sole reason for being is to stop the works of the Prophets from being brought forth, by any and all means possible. They were originally Vespertini's personal bodyguards and as each prophet was born and became powerful, Vespertini's followers grew through time. They are known as The Noble Blade. They have been waiting for the manifestation of the five prophet's divination since Rambaldi's time.

"So they've been waiting, biding their time by slowly picking off Prophet 5's followers until they received a sign. It wasn't until Project Christmas came about that they felt their true goal had been revealed. That the Project Christmas children this worldwide weapon and that they would _all_ need to be destroyed. There is no other solution for the Noble Blade but utter and complete annihilation of all the sleeper agents. Every. Single. One."

"Surely they would know about the formula used to sever the control over the Project Christmas kids," Nadia said logically. "With so many years to research, and it being Vespertini's own invention, they would experiment, they would _know_ it would work."

"They don't want to know," Sloane said, shaking his head. "They've been waiting for over five centuries for their purpose to be realized. Unfortunately, their purpose involves mass genocide."

"And who would ever think of indulging in mass genocide for their own twisted beliefs?" Sydney asked pointedly to the group. Nadia had the decency to look abashed for her father, while Sloane simply shrugged.

"Sevogda was regrettable," was all Sloane had to say about that. Sydney made a motion to jump Sloane again but was steadied by a watery look from Nadia.

"So there's really no end to this," Sark said slowly. "Even if this antidote works and there are no more headaches, no more fugue states, whoever is running Prophet 5 now will be trying to find us, wondering why we defected. The Noble Sword will never give up on their quest to rid the world of all the Project Christmas children. What quality of life do you think the three of us will have if we're always running?"

"I don't think I've ever stopped running," Nadia muttered, mostly to herself.

"There are others we need to protect," Sloane interjected.

"Sloane," Irina said sharply, as if she wanted him to cut off this line of reasoning.

"No, Irina," Jack interjected quickly. "Sydney and Nadia have a right to know." Jack peered out into the ocean for a moment, as if putting together what he wanted to say. He looked back and forth between Sydney and her sister, before his gaze finally settled on Irina.

"Do you remember a photo I had, Sydney? I gave it to you after the fire," Jack started.

"The one of mom holding a baby," Sydney replied slowly. Nadia frowned.

"You told me you there was nothing to tell," Nadia said to Jack, accusatory.

"You said it was a niece," Sydney continued, not really hearing her sister. "But that is impossible. Neither Katya nor Elena had any children."

"Katya gave birth to a daughter," Irina told her children. "The result of an affair with a French diplomat named Laurent. Your cousin's name is Edie. Edie was taken away from Katya in jail, not unlike you were taken from me, my darling Nadia. I think it is now obvious why Katya pursued you so passionately. When Katya was released from jail she spent ten years searching for Edie. She found her and for a little less than a year they lived as mother and daughter. During that time Katya gave Edie the same treatment I had given all of you...to protect her. When Edie was eleven, men stole into their home and kidnapped the child. Sometime later Katya was given indisputable evidence that her daughter was dead."

"But she's not," Sydney supplied.

"No," Irina said. "She was taken by her birth father and hidden away. She eventually became a member French intelligence but she has been missing for some time. Katya is currently investigating a lead, but there might be a time when I will ask one, or all of you, to help my niece. It might compromise your new aliases and lives, but I will only ask. You are under no obligation to follow me."

"Excuse me, new aliases?" Sydney couldn't help the shrillness in her voice. "Are you telling us we're going to have to go into Witness Protection?"

"Oh, no," Sloane answered her. "That would be much too risky. We trust that the three of you and your ability to make new lives for yourselves. Hasn't that been what you've always wanted, Sydney? To live a nice, normal life?"

When Sydney didn't answer, Irina turned to Sark.

"And you, Sark? Will you protect what's yours? Surely you feel some responsibility for her." A significant look passed between the young, blond protégé and the older, regal mentor. Sydney was at a loss to recognize it. Sark looked livid and nervous at the same time.

"Uh, does she mean me?" Sydney asked the obvious. "Because I'm fairly capable of taking care of myself, if anyone didn't notice."

"Certainly not," Sark replied dully. "As if you were ever mine to begin with."

"Sark's secret is his own," Irina told Sydney, though her eyes sparkled with some ill-gotten knowledge. "I do not have the liberty to divulge it."

"Irina, what I have been set to protect is not my responsibility any longer," Sark said cryptically. "I don't think it was ever was. Whatever the case may it, she's on her own and that's all I will say about that matter."

Sydney continued to stare at Sark but he refused to look at her. How could they have been together for so long, gone through so much, and he not confide something this huge to her? And the _something_ was female. Was his mother still alive? Did he have a sister lurking out there somewhere? Was it a former lover or something far worse? Had he conceived a child somewhere along the line and left the kid's mother before he could take responsibility for what he had done? Dozens of scenarios swirled through Sydney's mind but she didn't have a chance to address them before her father spoke up.

"The hour is getting late," Jack said to the group at large.

"I should get my father to a hospital," Nadia told her sister. "I'll call you later."

"Sounds good," Sydney agreed and the two sisters walked across the worn wooden boards of the pier and embraced each other. If they had to start living their aliases, like she had done with Julia Thorne, would she still see her sister?

"We'll see each other soon," Nadia promised, though Sydney knew it wouldn't be an easy promise to keep. Sydney released her sister and watched as Nadia hugged their mother. For a moment the two women wore identical smiles. Nadia crossed to Jack and gifted him a peck on the cheek. Jack coughed into his hand awkwardly. Sloane smirked at Jack, who nodded his head in goodbye. Sydney's former boss turned to her.

"Goodbye Sydney," Sloane said, with a tip of his ice bag. He motioned to Nadia and the father and daughter walked across the pier and into the sand. They climbed the dunes and into oblivion, as far as Sydney knew.

"So, what now?" Sydney asked her parents.

"I have been doing some preliminary work on your new alias," her father told her. "I have airplane tickets for us. We need to be leaving soon to get to the airport on time."

"Mom?" Sydney asked.

"I'll be taking Sark with me," Irina said. "I have a business opportunity that is in need of his distinctive skills."

"I see," was all that Sark said. An awkward silence passed between the foursome. Sydney looked off into the distant horizon, while Sark stared at Sydney and Jack glared at Sark. There was a sad, strange smile playing on Sark's lips that both Jack and Irina noticed.

Irina held the group in silent amusement. She kept a straight face, however while Jack scowled.

"Jack," she said, jarring the three others out of their reverie. "I think there are a few more things we need to discuss before you take off with Sydney. Will you two excuse us for a moment?"

Sark nodded and Sydney said sure. Jack, on the other hand, looked indignant.

"I think we've been over everything," Jack replied crossly.

"Jack," Irina said sternly. "Please."

She motioned him down the pier and, with a backward glance from Jack, walked the length of the pier and into the house.

"There's nothing else to go over," Jack fumed, in his quiet way of his. He watched his daughter walk with that _sociopath_ up the dock and off to the beach behind the house.

"I know," Irina answered, perching herself in a nearby chair. "Don't you think you should give them a chance to say goodbye?"

"Goodbye? Goodbye?!" Jack said, clearly vexed. "Do you see the way he looks at her?"

"I do," Irina answered quietly. She rested her gaze on her former's husband's face, her eyes sad and knowing. "Do you know I've never seen him smile like that? Not ever."

"He's infatuated with her," Jack said seriously, pacing. "It's unhealthy."

"They've become so accustomed to taking care of one another," Irina said. "...that I think it will take some time for them to stop caring about each other."

"This is your fault," Jack accused her.

"No," Irina answered. "Honestly, Jack. Have you ever met a man that has met your daughter that _hasn't_ fallen head over heels for her? Why do you expect Sark to be different?"

"Because he's a _sociopath_ with _homicidal tendencies_ that _murders_ people for _money_."

"The same could be said about you. And me. And Sydney, for that matter."

"This is insane," Jack said, the vein in his temple throbbing with anger.

"Why is it so insane?" Irina mused, tucking her legs underneath her. She held Jack's gaze, capturing his brown eyes with hers. "No one will ever be good enough for Sydney. Sark is not a bad man. He is not a good man, but he is certainly not a bad man. He could be someone who understands her. He could be her match, someone that challenges her. She would be her Jack."

Jack felt his breath leech out of him.

"Damn you, Irina" he hissed, turning his back on her.

* * *

They were standing next to each other on the white sand beach, its unblemished surface occasionally married by pink shells. She snuck a glance at Sark, watching as his short blond hair catching the gentle ocean breeze. Neither of them had asked the other to move from the pier but they both started walking at the same time, like an invisible thread both pulling them both forward. They found themselves shoulder to shoulder, staring into the clear, blue ocean as if the truth was buried in its hidden depths.

"Are we going to talk about the secret you're keeping from me?" Sydney asked softly.

"No," Sark answered simply. "Are we going to talk about your newfound cousin?"

"No." Sydney replied. "I am just so damn tired of talking about my family."

"We don't have to talk. You know, there was a time when you and I standing in generally the same vicinity would generate in only one, easy response," Sark reminisced. "Kill or be killed."

"Did you ever _really_ try to kill me?" Sydney asked.

"_Yes_," Sark said emphatically. "I really, really did."

"Some days I miss that," Sydney reminisced. She didn't look at him when she continued. "I think I'll miss this more, though."

"You'll be surprised I'm not excited to go back to the way things were," Sark said, with a small laugh that didn't really denote amusement.

Sydney sighed. It was a tired sound. "So...what do we do now? What happens if I go my way, and you go yours, and we meet somewhere down the line?"

"We could fall back into our old roles," Sark said slowly. "...trading quips and bullets, you know, typical spy stuff. But then, I've never seen us as particularly typical. Or..."

" Or...what?"

"We tempt fate," Sark says, turning to her for the first time since the pier. "Do you really want to spend the rest of your life being...normal?" Sark said the word like it was dirty.

"What's wrong with being normal?" Sydney asked, honestly perplexed.

"Everything!" Sark said icily. "You sitting at a desk all day, grading papers of snot-nosed ingrates is like spitting in God's face for giving you all gifts he gave you."

"Gifts? Gifts!" Sydney couldn't believe it. "I think you would know better than anyone that what we can do is nothing more than a curse...and it certainly wasn't bestowed upon us by God. What do you see me doing, Sark, if you're so smart? Where can I go now? What life could I possibly lead?"

Sark wanted to grab her. He wanted to shake her and kiss her and throw her down on this damn beach and fuck her senseless. Maybe then she would see there was more than being _normal_, being _adequate_, being _good_. He could see a life for her...a life of excitement and danger, of travel and sex. Not the normal life she always wished for but a strange and exciting life she never knew she wanted.

"There is a life for you out there," he said softly. "...where you would never have to compromise who you are." At first Sydney just stood there, confused. She took his appearance in: his bloodied lip, his bandaged wrist, the cocky stance of his legs and his hands, his beautiful, elegant hands stuffed in his pockets. But it was his eyes that gave him away. It was always his eyes, those piercing, endless blue eyes that shot right through her like a bullet and she _knew_.

"A life..._with you_?"  
Sark shrugged. It was intended to be a carefree gesture, like he didn't care what she thought, but he _did_ care, for once in his miserable life. He wanted this woman, wanted her so badly it hurt like a physical ache. He didn't just want her body, he wanted everything about Sydney Bristow. Stupidly enough he wanted her _happy_ and for a split second he thought he could do that.

"You know we could never...I mean, it would never be..." Sydney drifted off, not sure what she was trying to say.

"It would never be love?' Sark finished for her. Sark wasn't even sure he knew what the word meant. He knew he felt like his chest was on fire, thinking she might leave and he would never see her again. He knew he'd sit up nights thinking about her, remembering her skin on his. He knew he'd seek her out, wanting to protect her, wanting her to protect him. He wanted her at his side, _needed_ it, damn her.

"An extraordinary life led does not necessarily include love," Sark said, closing the distance between them. He didn't touch her, for fear she'd run. "There is a passion here. Can't you feel it? We could travel the world. We'd fight in Moscow and make up in Paris."

"That's insane," Sydney said, stepping away from him. Sark let her move away. She was flustered and sputtering. She was unsure, torn between everything she ever thought she wanted and the one person she never thought she needed. Absurdly, this pleased him.

"Why?" Sark asked. "We've been doing it for six months. Look me in the face and tell me it didn't feel right."

Sydney couldn't look at him. She wanted to, wanted to prove how wrong he was. She didn't trust her mouth to work like she wanted so she looked off in the distance, where the cloudless sky met the clear blue sea.

"I see," Sark replied softly. A beat passed, Sark waiting for her to answer, but pressed on when she wouldn't. "I know you don't like desperate men, Sydney. I am certainly not that. I will not stand here and beg you to go with me."

He took a step back from her. "There is an old, stone manor house in Galway. It overlooks the cliffs in the Connemara region to the west. I trust you'll be able to find it."

Sydney vaguely recalled Sark's origins were located in Galway. She nodded, and he continued.

"Six months from now, from this day, I'll be there. I'm not asking you to meet me there. I want you to make your own decisions, and if they bring you to me, then, so be it."

"Sark..." Sydney trailed off. "What would you have me do? You think I'd go around, stealing and killing for my mother to make a living? You have to recognize that unless you and I have a goal to chase, we have so little in common. That's not a real life. It's not the life that I want...despite the fact that my feelings for you are...conflicted."

"Is that your roundabout way of telling me how much you love fucking me?" Sark asked innocently. "Because I certainly think that's a good enough reason to stay together."

Sydney pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed exasperatedly. "See, it's not. That's not what normal people want. It's not what _I_ want."

"It's what I want," Sark answered. "And you would want it, too, if you let yourself. I never saw myself as particularly patient, Sydney, but I will wait for you. I will wait 6 months, the time we spent together, for you to come to me. After that, I won't wait for you anymore."

"Sark...don't..."

"I will. I will wait. Just not forever."

"This is goodbye," Sydney said, trying to inject finality and sternness into her voice.

"For now," Sark replied, with a grin. He held out his hand. "Working with you has been a pleasure, Miss Bristow. It has been a destiny I have been glad to fulfill."

She grasped his beautiful, murderous hand in hers. She couldn't believe that she would wake up tomorrow and he wouldn't be there. She held on to him longer than she should have, but not as long as she wanted.

"Goodbye, Mr. Sark."

She let him go, feeling his hand slip from hers and feeling like he was taking a bit of her with him. She watched him turn his back to her and Sydney felt glad because tears began welling up in her eyes. The wind toyed with his hair as he walked, hair she had wound between her fingers. There was only a few feet separating them now but the distance was growing. The dread building up inside her was threatening to choke her. She knew she had to let him go, knew it was the right thing to do, but there was such an overwhelming sense of _wrongness_ to watching him walk away that a word slipped out before she could stop it.

"Wait," she whispered, barely audible to even herself. She took one step forward. "Wait," she said, louder now, but the wind caught the one, tiny utterance and swallowed it. She took another small step toward him, and then another.

"Wait!" She was running now, running toward, marveling how far she had let him move away from her. Sark stopped and slowly turned around. He couldn't process it at first but after a second, yes, yes she _was_ running to him. For someone to whom happiness didn't usually visit, the smile that stretched across Sark's face was so wide and genuine it threatened to break him. He didn't dare blink for fear the vision of her finally coming to him was a dream, some figment of his imagination that would shatter when he closed his eyes.

She was so close, he could almost smell her shampoo when he heard a curious sound, like a car backfiring. God, he must be in love with her, because his heart was beating like crazy and he felt like he was floating. Sydney was staring at him and she was crying, which normally wasn't so strange, but she had this look on her face, a horrific look, and he thought maybe she was changing her mind. He held out a hand to her, beckoning, feeling lightheaded and strange.

Sydney watched as blood blossomed on Sark's shirt at his abdomen, the red spot slowly growing larger and larger. She let out a sob and caught him in her arms before he could fall. She had seen this, seen this exact scene _somewhere_, but it had been her falling, her blood pooling up in the sand. She put a hand to the wound, the blood seeping out at an alarming rate, feeling so warm against her skin.

She turned her face to the dunes, where the shot had come from and saw a figure, solitary and dark against the white sand. She knew intimately the cut of the man's hair, the feel of his hands on her, the curve of his jaw and taste of his lips. Vaughn stood with the sniper rifle in his hand, staring at her, before shuffling painfully over the bank.

"Vaughn," she panted, putting pressure on Sark's wound. God, where were her parents? Didn't they hear the shot? She needed to chase after Vaughn, needed to feel her hands encircling his neck, but Sark's eyelids were fluttering and the blood simply would not stop.

"No, I'm Sark," Sark said thickly, feeling so damn cold. He was vaguely annoyed but the pain that had began to radiate from his abdomen was overtaking all other feelings by now.

"No, Vaughn shot you," Sydney said stupidly, not knowing why she was explaining. She needed to go after Vaughn but needed to stay here. Sark coughed and blood bubbled at his lips. Sydney moaned pitifully and shifted him, trying to stop the flow the seemingly endless flow of blood.

"Help," she called out, hoping her parents would hear her. Why hadn't she been shot? Why Sark? Why Vaughn? He was dead, she watched him burn, but now it was Sark dying. Sark, who she never thought would matter much to her at all but suddenly meant _everything_. "Help me! _Help!_"

"Sydney," Sark whispered. He was so cold and pale that Sydney shivered. Sydney caught movement out of the corner of her eye and saw her parents running from the house and down the beach toward her.

"Sydney," Sark repeated, his voice growing more and more faint.

"Yes, Sark, I'm here," Sydney said, her voice wavering with emotion. "You're going to be fine. My parents are coming. We'll take you to the hospital and -"

"Sydney, please," he mumbled. "...don't leave."

"I need to go find Vaughn," she said quickly. "My parents are almost here, they'll stop the bleeding and I'll be right back, I just need to -"

"Don't leave me."

Jack and Irina finally reached them and Irina skidded to a halt, putting her hands on top of Sydney's.

"It was Vaughn," Sydney hissed. "He's alive and he shot Sark. He isn't far, he's hurt," Sydney moved her hands from Sark's wound and pressed Irina's where hers had been. Her hand snatched out and grabbed a gun her father had in a holster across his shoulder. She checked the magazine and her father reached out.

"No, Sydney, you cannot pursue him now," her father said sternly. "Sark needs medical attention and you don't know if Vaughn has backup."

Sydney pointed the gun at her father. "Don't you _dare_ try and stop me. Make sure he is alive when I get back or I'll hold you personally responsible."

She took off across the beach. Jack turned to Irina, who was hovering over Sark, her hands pressed against the painful wound. She took one hand off and reached into the band of her pants, pulling out a pistol.

"Make sure she doesn't get herself killed," Irina barked at him and Jack took off behind his daughter.

Sydney ran until her lungs hurt, but there was only more sand and sea. There were no footsteps, no tire marks, no indication that a man named Andre Michauex lived and breathed and shot a man she...loved? Certainly a man she cared against her own will and better judgment. He had vanished, like a bolt of lightning flashing in a storm and vanishing without a trace. She spun around, looking for something, _anything_ that would make this right but she was alone and scared.

She turned back, feeling desperate and sick, to where she had left Sark and her parents. She felt the sand shift and move under her and suddenly she couldn't get back to him fast enough. She fell to her knees hiking up a particularly large dune and crawled over it, only to find herself face to face with her father. He was laying on his front, his face turned sideways in the sand. His eyes were closed.

She quickly turned him over and checked his wrist pulse. He was breathing and his heartbeat was steady. It was then that she spotted the tranquilizer dart, small and unobtrusive, sticking out of his neck. She pulled it out and threw it on the ground. Knowing there was nothing more she could do for him she sprinted to Sark, cursing herself for leaving him in the first place. Tears blurred her vision. _What if he was dead,_ Sydney thought to herself. _What if he was dying and I left him? He never would have left me...and I left him. Oh, God, what if he's dead?_

She was almost there, just one more dune to cross, and Sydney tripped, her feet catching a dip in the sand and she went sprawling, tumbling down the bank. She hit something warm and solid and felt liquid seeping into her clothes. She turned herself over and found she had fallen and landed next to her mother. She too had a tranq dart jutting out of her neck. She check her mother's pulse and found it steady.

She pulled herself up to her knees and looked down at what she had rolled in. Blood pooled up in the sand and shone ruby red in the sunlight. She was covered in it, she saw, but there was no body, no Sark anywhere. Her hands groped over the indentation in the sand and in the pool of blood that proved he had been there, desperate for something, _anything_.

Even if he was dead, there should be a body. If he wasn't dead, he shouldn't have been able to walk. If someone else was there, why weren't her parents dead? Why wasn't _she_ dead? Where was he? Where was Sark? Sydney's breathing came out in wracking, uncontrollable gasps and she put her arms around herself, rocking back and forth. She always thought _she_ would be the one to leave _him_.

She had been so wrong.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Twelve, Part Two and Three

1. Joel Plaskett, "Heartless, Heartless, Heartless". **Listen to when**: While Sydney and Sark are walking back from the church and they meet Sloane at their bungalow.

Lyrics: _Heartless, heartless, heartless  
Where'd you hide your heart?  
In the dark, the darkest darkness  
I'm coming apart  
In the dark  
This is how it feels  
To be under your thumb  
To be under your wheels_

Lover, lover, lover  
Where'd you leave your love?  
In the bed, beneath the covers?  
Where push will come to shove  
I will leave  
And will not return  
I will make my mistakes  
And from them I'll learn

2. Ingrid Michaelson, "Porcelain Fists". **Listen to when**: Sydney goes back to the church and Sark gets sick.

Lyrics: _"Follow your heart", he said.  
Your heart will take you there.  
"Swallow your pride", he said.  
For pride is anything but rare.  
So I walked into your eyes without a raincoat on  
And in the salty sea, I find you're all but gone._

Take my hand, you're treading water  
I feel I am slipping away from underneath my toes  
Nobody knows  
Where is it she goes?

3. Blue Foundation, "Eyes on Fire". **Listen to when**: The "Ghost in the Machine" makes an appearance and cuts Sark.

Lyrics: _I'll seek you out,  
Flay you alive  
One more word and you won't survive  
And I'm not scared of your stolen power  
I see right through you any hour_

I won't soothe your pain  
I won't ease your strain  
You'll be waiting in vain  
I got nothing for you to gain

4. Bell X1, "Eve is the Apple of My Eye". **Listen to when**: Sydney looks terrible.

Lyrics: _And Eve said let's give it a try  
Now lead us not into temptation  
But no matter how hard I try  
When in the garden and  
Snake is a charmin'  
And Eve says let's give it a try  
Eve is the apple of my eye_

And I lie behind you  
And a cradle you in the palm of me  
And I pat your hair down  
I think will we sink or swim?  
'Cause we could do either on a whim

5. U2, "Bad". **Listen to when**: Sark and Sydney meet Nadia and Sloane at the beach.

Lyrics: _If you twist and turn away  
If you tear yourself in two again  
If I could, yes I would  
If I could, I would  
Let it go  
Surrender  
Dislocate  
If I could throw this  
Lifeless lifeline to the wind  
Leave this heart of clay  
See you walk, walk away  
Into the night  
And through the rain  
Into the half-light  
And through the flame_

6. The Tea Party, "The Messenger". **Listen to when**: Sydney and Sark discover who The Messenger really is.

Lyrics: _got a letter from a messenger  
I read it when it came  
It said that you were wounded  
You were bound and chained  
You had love and you were handled  
You were poisoned you were pained  
Oh no, oh no you were naked  
You were shamed_

You could almost touch heaven  
Right there in front of you  
Liberty just slipped away on us  
Now there's so much work to do  
Oh the door that closes tightly  
Is the door than can swing wide  
Oh no, not expecting to collide

For a minute I let my guard down  
Not afraid to be found out  
I completely forgot dear  
What our fears were all about  
Oh no, oh no there's no need to be without

If there's a chance I would take it (Take it)  
This desire I can't kill (No)  
Take my heart please don't break it (Break it)  
I will crawl to your foothill

I'm frightened but I'm coming  
Please baby please lay still  
Oh no I'm not coming for the kill

7. Ray LaMontagne, "Empty". **Listen to when**: The discussion of The Five Prophets, Vespertini, and The Noble Blade.

Lyrics: _There's a lot of things that can kill a man  
There's a lot of ways to die  
Yes and some already dead who walk beside me  
There's a lot of things I don't understand  
Why so many people lie  
Well it's the hurt I hide that  
fuels the fires inside me_

8. Ahn Trio, "All I Want". **Listen to when**: Jack and Irina weigh in.

Lyrics: _What all the tryin' is for.  
You come around, I feel so down  
I'm gonna drown  
'Cause I know that you've fallen short_

But do you know  
it doesn't change  
The way I feel 'bout you, at the end of the day?  
'cause I know, that I all I want is what you got.  
All I want, is what you got.

Too many times, I have wanted  
To turn around and walk away  
Knowing deep inside, you can't provide  
What I need from you, anyway

9. Sanders Bohlke, "The Weight of Us". **Listen to when**: Sydney and Sark say goodbye.

Lyrics: _  
There's a cold heart buried beneath  
The warm blood running deep  
Secrets are mine to keep  
Protected by silent sleep_

I'm not ready  
I'm not ready

For the weight of us  
For the weight of us  
For the weight of us  
For the weight of all of us

Time has come, let us be brave  
Time has come, let us be brave  
Shake off all of your sins  
Time has come, let us be brave


	22. Chapter 13, Part 1

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: HARD R (NOTE THE RATING CHANGE), for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline**: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: It's almost the end, folks! Many long years and we only have one more chapter after this one. Sad! I know it takes months and months for me to update, but I am going to miss this story and all of you very much. Enough of the maudlin crap, on with the story! This chapter features blatant (so, so blatant) homages to the movies "Kill Bill" and "Closer", Sydney vs. the hospitality manager, Jack and Irina play house, and some hot man on man action. As always, soundtrack at the end.

* * *

Sydney stared at the pregnancy test. She had finally taken the stick out of the box, though her hands had been shaking the entire time. Sure, she could deactivate a nuclear weapon without the shakes no problem. She wasn't afraid of drug lords or international terrorists or serial killers but she was afraid of peeing on a stick.

_Afraid of what, exactly?_ Sydney bit her lip so hard it bled. The copper penny tang tasted like fear. She traced the argyle pattern on the hotel comforter, hoping the repetitive action would somehow quiet the millions of thoughts racing through her head. There was one that kept pushing itself to the forefront, something that wouldn't be ignored. It was his name pulsing in time with her racing heart.

_Sark, Sark, Sark, Sark._

If there was life growing inside her, half of it belonged to him. It had been eight weeks since the night they had been together in Paris. It had been seven weeks since Sydney had left Sark broken and bleeding on that white sand beach in Venezuela; leaving him to chase a man that was already dead. Now, she spent her every waking hour searching for the two of them: the man who had been the father of her now deceased unborn child and the man who gave her the life that could possibly be growing inside her right now.

Her period had been sporadic at best since the miscarriage. Her doctor had told her that the chances of Sydney conceiving again were very slim. She hadn't bothered with birth control. She felt too broken, too empty to even bother with dating. And, of course, Sydney Bristow would never have sex without a relationship. She had slept with Will, but there were real feelings and a history there. Same with Noah. Sex with someone for the sheer pleasure, regardless of consequences or repercussions, was a totally foreign concept. The only man she was seeing on a regular basis was Sark, and she would inever/i have sex with Sark. That was totally out of the question.

Until it wasn't. It surprised her even now that she hadn't even considered protection when she slept with Sark. There had been no conscience reminding her to take precaution, to be careful. There had only been loneliness, need, and passion. Her practicality and thoughtfulness had been thrown clean out the window when she finally felt his hands on her and she surrendered to him.

In the months since, she had been so bent on revenge, so focused on finding Vaughn and Sark that one or two missed periods did not even register. It wasn't until last night that she realized something was wrong. She had followed up on a lead regarding Vaughn's whereabouts in Moscow, only to find an empty warehouse. Empty, but not abandoned. Sydney wondered, later, why she didn't feel remorse about killing anymore. But, with only a flesh wound and six dead Prophet Five members to show for her troubles, she did not dwell on the steady downward spiral of her morality. She had been more concerned with the gut-wrenching pain in her abdomen as she hurled into the toilet on the plane. Twice.

Sydney did not get motion sickness. She had spent the majority of her adult life traveling in airplanes and had never experienced such intense nausea...except when she had been pregnant.

Steeling herself, she stood up and walked purposefully to the bathroom. She read the directions one last time before pulling her pants down, sitting on the toilet, and began to relieve herself on the pink pregnancy stick. She was finishing up when the doorbell of her hotel room rang. Frowning, she cleaned herself up and took herself and the pregnancy test to the door.

Sydney peered out of the peephole, to see a grinning face surrounded by large red hair and a basket of flowers.

"Who is it?" She called through the door. She peered through the fisheye lens of the peephole and saw a woman with bright pink lipstick and lots of bright red hair.

"This is Sharon Paul. I'm the hospitality manager of this hotel, to give you a welcoming basket from the management."

Sydney sighed. "That's nice," she said, and in doing so dropped the pregnancy test on the floor. She bent down to pick it up. "If you could just leave it by the door..."

The door above her exploded in a splintering barrage of wood and shotgun pellets. Sydney vaulted over the bed and grabbed her loaded pistol. Sydney watched as a plump, prim looking woman in a business suit kicked her door open with her sensible pumps. By the time Sharon had located Sydney's position on the floor by the bed, Sydney had her firearm pointed at the woman's face.

"You're here to kill me?" Sydney asked, drawing Sharon's attention to her position. She saw the woman slightly taken aback at being caught in Sydney's gun sight.

"Well, I didn't bring this gun with me to tickle you," Sharon replied sardonically. "Sorry, nothing personal."

"Well, let me tell you something. Sharon, is it?" Sydney said, her grip on her gun never wavering. The woman shrugged, as if the name was unimportant. "You might get a shot off at me, but not before I put a bullet between your eyes."

"I think I like my odds," Sharon said modestly. "I have this huge ass shotgun and you have that dinky little pistol. You could miss."

"I never miss," Sydney said seriously. "So I think we should talk before either of us makes a mistake."

"It's not a mistake that I'm here," Sharon told Sydney. "It's just business. No offense."

"Please excuse me if I don't accept that as justification," Sydney replied sarcastically. But her voice softened. "Listen, Sharon? Before this gets out of hand, I need you to do something."

"Yeah, that's likely to happen," Sharon scoffed.

"The minute before you offered me that lovely hospitality basket - "

"It's has bath beads in it," Sharon cut in. "It's actually pretty nice. I'm taking that shit with me when I go and treating myself to a nice bubble bath. I think I deserve it."

Sydney sighed exasperatedly. "You're killing me, Sharon."

"That's pretty much the point," Sharon said, smiling a perfect smile.

"The minute before you offered me the basket," Sydney repeated. "I was taking a pregnancy test. It's by the door. I could be pregnant."

"Bullshit," Sharon spat.

"Any other day you would be completely right," Sydney said with grave chuckle. "But not today. It's there by the door. Pick it up and tell me what it says."

"Ew, it has your pee on it," Sharon said squeamishly.

"You came here to kill me and you're a little iffy about some pee?" Sydney asked incredulously. "Pick it up, Princess, and tell me what it says."

Sharon exhaled loudly, indicating what an inconvenience this whole escapade was for her, but bent at the knees to pick up the pregnancy test. She held it in between two fingers like it was a repulsive bug and peered down at it.

"What am I looking at?"

"The instructions are right there," Sydney said, gesturing with her gun next to Sharon. "At your feet. Just pick it up and tell me what it says."

Sharon bent down, picked up the instructions, and in the one second that she was reading them Sydney popped a shot off into Sharon's shoulder. Sharon dropped the shotgun with a cry and fell to the ground, clutching her wounded shoulder. Sydney quickly jumped up and kicked the shotgun away.

"You bitch!" Sharon yelled, tears streaming out her eyes. "You fucking bitch!"

"Yes,_ I'm_ the fucking bitch here," Sydney replied sardonically, standing over Sharon.

"I think I'm laying on your pee stick," Sharon whined and Sydney rolled her eyes.

"Who sent you to kill me? Sydney demanded.

"Yeah, like I'm going to tell you," Sharon scoffed with tears in her eyes.

"You're going to tell me or I'll continue my target practice on more important regions of your body," Sydney assured her. "Like your kneecaps. Or your face."

"Listen lady," Sharon spat. "I am an assassin. A damn good one, despite this little faux pas. I get paid by a lot of different people for a lot of different hits. It doesn't matter to me who they are as long as I get my money."

"Well, this time around, your employee is of great concern to me, and it should be for you, since I could redecorate this room with your brain matter," Sydney said conversationally.

"Ew. Gross, dude," Sharon replied.

Sydney jammed the shaft of her pistol against Sharon's temple.

"Who...hired...you?"

"It was this whacked out group on some sort of crusade," Sharon said, wincing as more blood seeped out of her shoulder. "They've been systematically taking out people for the past few years. You're just one of thousands."

"The name, Sharon."

"The Noble Blade," Sharon said. "Sounds like a gay club to me, but they mean business."

Sydney felt dread wash over her.

"Like I need this on top of everything else," Sydney lamented softly.

"Well, according to them, you're this, like, unstoppable, unconscionable killing machine," Sharon supplied in a helpful tone. "And the world would be better off without you. I, for one, now agree with them."

"Gee, thanks Sharon," Sydney breathed, not really listening to the assassin. The Noble Blade was closing in, taking out all the Project Christmas children. She was only one person and they were so very many. She would have to keep running and fighting...forever. The prospect was exhausting and Sydney wasn't sure how long she'd be able to keep them at bay...or how long she wanted to.

She looked down and put a hand to her abdomen. She had no choice. She had to fight. For herself. And for whoever else might come along.

"Ok, Sharon, I have a plan," Sydney told the woman. "You're going to go back to the Noble Blade and tell them you carried out the mission. Tell them I'm dead, you'll get your money, everyone's happy."

"I won't be happy when my employer finds out you're still alive, babe," Sharon said. "And when they do I'll be as dead as you're supposed to be and money won't do me any good."

"Well, it's either we go with my plan," Sydney said plainly. "Or I kill you right now. At least with my plan you get a fighting chance."

"There's no way they'll believe it," Sharon said, wincing in pain.

"Make them believe it," Sydney replied. "Now get out of here, before the cops get here. And don't think that I won't be able to find you if you go back on our little deal. The Noble Blade is right about one thing: I am a killing machine. I'll find you and you'll as dead as a doornail."

Sydney backed away, but kept the gun pointed at Sharon. She watched the zaftig woman struggle to her feet. Sydney grabbed a towel from the counter and threw it at her, and watched as Sharon pressed it against her wound.

"Now get the hell out of here," Sydney bade her.

Sharon let out an angry sort of grunt and turned to go. In the doorway she stopped and turned.

"So were you trying to get pregnant or was it a big, colossal mistake?"

Emotion threatened to choke Sydney speechless.

"I wasn't trying...but it wasn't a mistake. Not really."

"Well," Sharon said, issuing a smirk at Sydney. "You won't have to worry about babies getting in the way of all that killing you're going to do. You're not pregnant. Have a nice life, bitch."

With a turn of her considerable hips, Sharon left the room, leaving her blood and a stunned Sydney in her wake. She hardly felt the gun slip from her grip and clatter on the floor. She couldn't bear to look at the test herself and turned away from it like it was a cold, dead thing. She heard the police sirens wailing in the distance but they were a distant threat compared to the aching hole she felt in her empty womb. She clutched her belly and sank to the floor. She knew she should be moving, leaving this place of blood behind, but her legs wouldn't work and her lungs couldn't find oxygen in the air.

She should be happy. Hell, she should be ecstatic. A kid carrying both her and Sark's DNA would bound to be some kind of killing machine, something Sydney would never wish on anyone, let alone her own child. Sark wasn't cut out to be any kind of father figure. Even if he wasn't a paid gun for hire, his own father issues made him pretty much the worst idea of a dad Sydney could think of. It would kill her to cut him out of her life now but she would have to. There was no normal life for this child if Sark was in it. For Sydney, growing up as the child of a dead mother and an absent father, she knew she wouldn't force that life on anyone. It was a cruel existence and only served to make her hard and cold. She wasn't fit to be anyone's mother. Between the two of them, with all the blood on their hands and ice in their hearts, they would ruin their child before it even had a chance.

But then she thought about Sark's eyes. Those deep, fathomless, blue eyes like bits of sky torn from the heavens. They knew her, _he_ knew her, and those eyes were the key to her own damn downfall. She saw those eyes on a child, with his blond hair and her prominent ears. It would have been a boy, of course, with her precocious ways and his mischievous grin. She could see the child, ireally/i see him and he was a beautiful boy. Her heart and womb ached with the loss of the son Sark never gave her...and would never know she almost had.

He never would be good enough for her. She would never be cruel enough for him. He would never be the one for her. She could never shoot enough, kill enough, bleed enough, _do_ enough to truly save him. But she missed him. God, it hurt, how much she missed him.

Later, on the nightly news, the shooting at the Park Barrington Hotel was at the top of the hour. Blood was left at the scene and a woman was seen fleeing the premises. Some said she was a blond. Others said a brunette. Some witnesses claimed she held a maid hostage before shooting her way out of the hotel. Others assert she paid off the police to let her go free. The one detail that all the witnesses could agree was that as the woman ran through the hotel, she was crying.

* * *

"Jack?"

Irina pretended to have just woken up but, truthfully, she had been awake for hours, cataloguing every movement, every twitch, every breath Jack had taken since he decided he would leave. He hadn't told her; he wouldn't, not until he gathered up the willpower to go. She had known he would leave anyway. The hitch of his breath, the flush of his skin, the barely contained energy bubbling under his usually cold surface, Irina knew it all. And she knew he was going to do something very, very stupid.

"Yes, Irina?"

Jack shifted under the covers, reaching outside the bed for his clothes. He wasn't sure what he would tell Irina about what he had decided. Really, he didn't need to tell her anything, she probably already knew. But it would be only right to at least give her some idea, since they had been on this journey together. It would be more than what she would do for him, but hadn't expected any less.

"Where are you going?"

"Honestly? I'm not sure."

Jack shrugged on his pants and looked to the chair for his shirt. His gaze went to his former wife, still naked and beautiful under the covers. The sex had began again quite naturally after they devised the "Messenger" scheme. They had stayed together, for the most part, and had stayed under the radar so the kids and Prophet Five wouldn't find them. In their hiding the two former spouses had found the passionate and yet familiar path back to one another, though neither of them held any unrealistic expectations of the what the relationship was. Not that that mad made things any less complicated.

"Are you going after Sydney? Or the boys?"

"If I find the boys, Sydney will come," Jack replied evenly, feeling the reassuring weight of the pistol in the pocket of his pants. Not the safest place to keep it but it was handy and he knew better than to sleep with Irina without a firearm close by.

"We've been trying to locate them for weeks," Irina said, her hand slipping under her pillow to where she kept her gun. She didn't think she would have to shoot Jack, not really, but it was better to be safe than sorry. "What makes you think you'll have any luck?"

"Just a hunch," Jack replied, in his usual clinical and cryptic manner.

"I thought we decided to let Sydney deal with this on her own," Irina said, letting the covers slip a little. Jack knew she did it on purpose, to distract him. Not that that stopped him from looking anyway.

"We did," Jack agreed, sitting on the chair in the hotel room to put on his shoes. He was aware that she had her hand on his firearm but he didn't think she would shoot him. Well, maybe she would, but not somewhere where it would kill him. "But I can't sit back anymore and watch her suffer. Don't you think she's suffered enough?"

"No," Irina said callously. She fixed him with a smoldering look but it was lost on Jack now. "Suffering has made her strong. If you kill him for her, she'll never get closure and she'll hate you for it."

"Maybe," Jack said, pulling the gun out now. It didn't hurt to show Irina he meant business. "But I can't stand not doing anything while she suffers."

"You always had that fatherly instinct," Irina said, eyeing Jack's pistol. "You'll always be a better parental figure than me Jack."

"That's not exactly hard to do," Jack replied without humor. Irina fixed him with an exacting glare but continued.

"That being said, that doesn't mean I don't know what's best for Sydney. You'll lose her, Jack. And if you do, you'll have nothing left."

"Are you saying you don't want to stick around and play house with me?"

"Be serious, Jack," Irina warned. All pretense cast aside, she pulled her gun out, too. She did not aim but kept it in her hand above the covers, so Jack could see.

"This has got to end," Jack said, standing and approaching the hotel room door. "And if she hates me for it, well, it wouldn't be the first time. She won't thank me, but she'll be free of them. And her safety is all that matters."

"Them?" Irina's hand gripped her firearm tightly. She did not hesitate when she brought it up and aimed it at Jack. "Kill Michauex if you must but don't kill Sark. Part of the whole "Messenger" plot was to protect him. He's my responsibility and I will not let you kill him."

"He's a liability," Jack replied, aiming his gun at her now. "He has, and will continue to put her in danger."

"He _saved_ Sydney," Irina said angrily. "In more ways than one. She cares for him, don't you see that?"

"Oh, I see it," Jack said in a low voice. "Which makes me all the more determined to take him out. I know you feel a maternal responsibility for him, but think of your _actual _offspring. The one you should _actually_ care about. He'll be the death of her and that I cannot abide."

"Don't do this, Jack," Irina warned in a low, serious tone. "I will rain hell down on you if you take him away from her."

"Then we are at an impasse," Jack said in a monotone voice. "I won't let her be dragged down with him. Sydney_ will_ have a normal life, even if I have to kill everyone that gets in my way. Including you and your precious Sark."

Jack opened the door. He turned his back on her, fully knowing she could, and probably would, shoot him.

"Jack...please."

He did turn around then, just to look at her one last time. She still was and, he knew would continue to be, the most beautiful woman in the world to him. She was deadly and striking but in this moment he found her to be strangely vulnerable in her loyalty to a man she still saw as a tow-headed six year old boy.

"If it makes a difference, I am sorry," Jack said, with more emotion Irina had seen in him in many years. "I don't like hurting you, but in the end, I will always choose Sydney. Goodbye Irina."

"Goodbye Jack."

He shut the door quietly, as if not to disturb her, but Irina was already disturbed. She continued pointing the gun at the door but, in the end, she knew she already had lost. She knew why she didn't shoot him but she hated herself for feeling it. She was so angry she didn't even notice the single tear she had shed for the son she never had.


	23. Chapter 13, Part 2

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: HARD R (NOTE THE RATING CHANGE), for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline**: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: Part two of chapter thirteen. Lots of blood, cursing, man on man action which, really, are the best parts of any story, if we're going to be honest with ourselves. Soundtrack's at the end, folks.

* * *

Vaughn, or Michaeux, depending on who the man wanted to be that day, was extremely fastidious about Sark's torture. Sark's body resisted, at first. Sloane had been as good as his word and the serum had given Sark a certain resistance to the brainwashing he had previously been so susceptible to. That had only made Vaughn more angry. He administered incrementally higher and higher doses of the nanotechnology that triggered the fugue states until Sark no longer was immune to its charms. He once again became a tool to be used at Vaughn and Prophet 5's disposal...when he wasn't being tortured, of course.

The physical torture was as extensive as it was inventive. In his rare moments of lucidity, Sark almost marveled at Agent Vaughn's creativity in wetwork. He had never thought the Boy Scout had had an original thought is his typical, narrow mind but Sark was continually surprised at the former C.I.A. agent's appetite and inventiveness in cruelty. Vaughn had taken great pains to make sure Sark hadn't died from his gunshot wounds, if only so he could draw out his enemy's agony.

At the very least, Vaughn tries not to mark up Sark's face too much. Because, there were the missions to think of. Sark was sent to do terrible, despicable things; they seemed despicable even to a man like Sark, who specialized in the art of the loathsome. The worst was being shown what he had done while under the blissful unconsciousness of the fugue state. Lapel bugs, surveillance tapes, and technology Sark had never even heard of before, utilized just to be able to show Sark what he'd done. He'd even watched one of Michauex's henchmen pose as a detective and coaxed a woman to tell her account of her husband's murder. Sark, or really Michauex through Sark, had demanded she have a hand in the execution. Sark had held a gun to her son's head while he demanded she pull the trigger on her husband. So, technically, he hadn't actually killed that guy. Semantics, really.

The worst, so far, had been the video footage from a modified pair of glasses Sark had worn during one of his compulsory missions. For hours he had to watch the slaughter of a seven year old girl at his own hand. Vaughn had placed the tape on a loop, so the pain and carnage never stops. The only relief is when too much blood had splattered on the lens that the girl's face is obscured and Sark can no longer see her. Until, of course, the loop starts up all over again.

Vaughn is surprised at how long Sark has withstood the torture without telling him what he wants to know. Frankly, Sark is just as surprised by his newfound inner strength. He likes to think it's because he gets off on being withholding to this coldhearted bastard.

Today, the last day, is no different. The two enemies face each other in the same windowless room Sark's been chained in for weeks now. Same bare, flickering light bulb hanging in the center of the room. Same salty, bitter taste of blood on his tongue. Same self-righteous, wrinkly face staring back at Sark. And, as always, the same questions about Sydney.

"Where is Sydney?" Vaughn asked, twisting his finger into the gunshot wound in Sark's abdomen.

"See, this seems a little homoerotic to me," Sark replied through gritted teeth. Pain shot through the gash like hot fire. "I'm not sure how comfortable I feel about you fingering my hole. I think I need an adult present."

Vaughn makes a grunt of annoyance as he punches Sark in the jaw.

"Now, look what you've made me do," Vaughn says regretfully, flexing his fingers. "You're going to have a big bruise on your face the next time I send you out to kill someone. Now, tell me, where is Sydney?"

Sark coughs and blood coats his lips. "Well, seeing as the last time I saw her I was bleeding internally, I'm probably not the best person to ask. I mean, you were there, you should know where she went. Oh, that's right, you shot me and then ran off like a huge pussy."

Vaughn's fist connected with Sark's face again and it took a few moments for the ringing in his ears to stop. Sark turned and spat out a bloody molar onto the floor. It bounced off of Vaughn's foot and Sark smiled.

"Do yourself a favor and give in to your instincts," Vaughn retorts. "Any other time you'd be singing by now. You're just prolonging the inevitable. Talk."

"Normally, I'd agree with you," Sark said, feeling a bit light-headed and giddy. "I would tell you if I had anything new to share. Really, the only thing I have any knowledge of right now is your exquisitely painful torture techniques. You could give me a multiple choice quiz on that and I think I'd get an 'A.'"

"Ok then," Vaughn said, his eyes narrowing in the dim light. "Tell me this. Why you?"

"Why me what?"

"Why would a woman like Sydney ever be with a cretin like you?"

"I dunno, she prefers blonds?"

"Don't be flippant," Vaughn warned, pushing his thumb against the hollow in Sark's cheek where a tooth used to reside. Sark winced, but did not make a noise. "If you want to keep the bullet holes in your belly at two, you'll take this seriously."

"What do you want me to say?" Sark said, getting exasperated. "My answers wouldn't solve any great mysteries. It won't get you close to her. It'll only make you kill me quicker."

"Humor me."

Sark knew he shouldn't answer this line of questioning, because sooner or later Vaughn would kill him for it. If this were another time, any other time, Sark would somehow escape. He'd tell them everything he knew just to see another day, because he loved himself more than he could love anyone else. But now...everything was different. Vaughn was different. Sydney was different. But, more than anything else, _he_ was different, in a way he couldn't even place himself. He'd stonewall this cold bastard until the end of his days, or die trying. For once in his miserable life, he cared for someone else more than himself. And if he amused himself along the path of his own downfall, well then, all the better.

"I don't know," Sark said with an exaggerated sigh. "The line between love and hate is just so terribly thin that when you're in constant emotional turmoil and mortal peril, sometimes a girl trips over that line and falls on my dick."

Sark closed his eyes just in time to miss seeing Vaughn deliver a punch to his bleeding gunshot wound. The world peels down from the middle like an orange as the pain overwhelms him. Vaughn patiently waits for Sark to stop vomiting blood onto the floor to continue his questioning.

"See, this just cements the fact that you're a terrible liar," Vaughn concluded, reaching over to wipe the blood on his hands on the tattered remains of Sark's shirt. "I think we both know that Sydney would never have sex with a man she didn't love."

For a few moments, Sark did nothing. And then, bit by bit, his face transformed, as if a sweet epiphany was dawning on him for the first time. Slowly, Sark smiled a horrific smile, full of teeth and blood. "You know, there was a time where I would have disagreed with that, but now? You're right, Agent Vaughn. You are absolutely right. Sydney would never have sex with a man she didn't love."

And yet, Sark kept smiling. The only thing that hurt worse than the gnawing gash in his gut was the savage, unstoppable grin stretched across his bruised and battered face. Vaughn had started out with the grim smirk of the knowing but, as he watched the insane, beatific smile plastered on Sark's face grow, his own sneer faded.

"What the hell are you smiling at, Sark?" Vaughn's voice had taken on a decidedly grating, pitchy quality to it where the suspicion and hysteria had crept into his speech. This only made Sark happier.

"I just can't believe we're finally agreeing on something," Sark said, laughing now. "And I can't believe we're agreeing about _this_. It's poetic, really."

"But that makes you a liar," Vaughn said resolutely. " Why does that make you so damn happy?"

"I just want you to keep in mind what you just said," Sark started, feeling his pain lift somehow. It's probably endorphins and adrenalin, but really, hating Vaughn so damn much is what makes this so very, very sweet. "...about Sydney. I forget you know her so well."

"You think you know her better?" Vaughn spat at him, like he was less than a man. Less than human. "You think you know her at_ all_?"

"I know that the pad of my thumb fits perfectly in the dimple at the small of her back," Sark says quietly, savoring this more than he really should, considering her will certainly die when he's done saying what he wants to say. Vaughn pales visibly and Sark continues.

"I know she has freckles on her chest. The pattern is random but I like to think of it as a tiny little galaxy perched on her perfect set of breasts. I know she likes to bite. Not hard, but sometimes hard enough to draw a little bit of blood. She pretends it doesn't excite her, but you and I both know it does. When she's on top, she doesn't push her hair back so you can see her face. She lets it cascade over her shoulders so it brushes against your face and chest and you can smell her shampoo on you all day long. I know she likes it when you say her name during, but she won't say yours, until she's coming. And I know that when I go down on her...it tastes just like heaven."

The gun is pressed against his temple before he can even breathe. Sark feels the smooth, cold kiss of a pistol against his skin and the harsh, moist breath of Michael Vaughn on his face.

"Tell the fucking truth."

"Why?"

"Because I'm addicted to it and I'll blow your face off if you don't."

"I think we both know I'm telling the truth and you just can't accept that fact that Sydney would fuck a guy like me."

"But that means...you're saying she's in love with you?"

The silence seemed endless, yawning and unyielding. Sark felt Sydney in the perfect peace and stillness of the moment and in the strange calm that stole over him, Sark iknew/i.

"Yes."

Vaughn went quiet. When the man did not immediately shoot him in the head, Sark expected him to scream, throw things, maybe even cry a little. But he just sat there, staring at Sark with a bizarre expression on his face. It was a mix of incredulity and, strangely, disappointment. Vaughn shook his head and fixed his gaze on Sark.

"You think love is simple," he said haughtily. Vaughn looked at Sark like he was something to be pitied. "You think the heart is like a diagram."

"Have you ever seen a human heart?" Sark shouted, his anger bubbling up uncontrollably. "It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood! Go fuck yourself! You...boy scout!"

Where seconds before, the word had filled Sark with indescribable awe and wonder, Sark suddenly hated the archaic word "love". He hated that this pretender used it to describe everything he had Sydney had been through, everything that he and Sydney were. They were so much more than just love and Sark was so beyond the word hate to describe what he felt for Vaughn.

"No one will love her as much as I do," Vaughn seethed to Sark. "That should count for something. I love everything about her. Her purity, her goodness, her heart."

"And that's why you lost her," Sark said quietly. "You are attracted to what she represents. You don't love her; you don't even know her. _I _know who she is. I love everything about her that hurts."

"Shut up!" Vaughn screamed, jabbing Sark with the gun. He kicked at Sark's chair and the Englishman went sprawling. The chair broke beneath him, but he was still handcuffed, and he went careening into the corner of the dank room. Vaughn began hitting him; in Sark's face, in his abdomen, anywhere he could get to. Blood from Sark's mouth and his reopened bullet wounds turned his white shirt a sickening, mottled red. Blood began to pool under Sark in a sickening quantity. Vaughn grabbed Sark by the front of his gore-ridden shirt and jabbed the pistol into his face. "Shut up! God, why won't you just shut up and die!"

Sark looked Vaughn straight in the eye and then spit a mouthful of blood in his face. "You first."

The next few moments might have lasted seven seconds in reality but seemed to stretch and bend to fill up eons of time and space. Sark couldn't be sure but he thought his heart might have stopped beating in those few seconds, perhaps in preparation for a bullet piercing the soft, grey flesh of his brain. Really it was the shock of seeing Jack Bristow kicking in the door of his dungeon and shooting Vaughn in the shoulder and then turning the gun on Sark.

The three men sat in relative silence for another moment or so until Vaughn eloquently remarked, "I don't think I deserve to be shot this much."

This remark came out stilted and amidst many groans and gasps for air on Vaughn's part. Sark finally recovered from the shock and pain of the situation to quip, "I disagree."

Jack simply stood, stoic and resolute as a statue, blinking at them as they were the two stupidest men alive.

"Mind helping a brother out, Jack?" Sark asked, shifting his broken and bruised body so he held his handcuffed hands out beseechingly to Sydney's father. Jack continued to stare down at Sark, keeping him in the sights of his gun.

"I think you are under the false impression that we are allies, Mr. Sark," Jack said, low and slow. "To overestimate my sympathy would be a critical mistake in judgment."

Sark looked up at the older man, ocean blue eyes rimmed in darker blue bruises. "You're here to kill us, then."

Jack's eyebrows lifted momentarily in impressed surprise. His face fell back into impassivity just as quickly.

"You're smarter than I thought."

"Not really," Sark answered, looking around the room. He was taking in every crack, every fissure in the plaster and every spot of blood on the floor. If this was where he was going to die then, well, he should lock away the image until it was obliterated from his skull. "It's pretty obvious that if you're not here to rescue me, the only other logical option is that you're here to kill me, or him, or both of us."

Jack cocked his head to the side, studying Sark. He looked like an eagle or a hawk, some powerful bird of prey, scrutinizing his meal before devouring it.

"The problem with the both of you," Jack said in his cold conversational tone. "...is that you think you are worth the effort of me killing you. You are nothing. You turning to me and pleading for mercy is as if an amoeba turned to one of you for compassion. Would you listen? Would you exert clemency over something so little and insignificant?"

Vaughn said yes at the same time Sark said no.

"Jack, you don't understand," Vaughn started, his hand to his shoulder, trying to quell the blood there. "This isn't about me. I'm doing this _for_ Sydney. I love her, Jack. When I'm through, when this is over, she will want for nothing. I can give her anything. I would give her the world."

Sark shivered at the look Sydney's father gave Vaughn.

"And what about what you've taken from her?"

"Taken?"

"When you left, she was only a shell of her former self," Jack said icily. "You broke this perfect person into a scared, imperfect thing and that's something I cannot abide."

"She wasn't perfect," Sark slurred, out of turn. He was losing blood quickly and was beginning to feel punchy. He wasn't even fully aware he was speaking. "That's the best part about her."

Jack turned from Vaughn and addressed his ex-wife's protégé. "Do you know?" He was looking at Sark but gestured his head to Vaughn, who looked confused.

Sark nodded his head, not looking at either of them. "Yes."

Jack's forehead crinkled with veiled, but piqued, interest. "She told you?"

"Yes," Sark repeated with more emotion than he wanted, really just wanting all of this to be over. It hurt enough just to think about her, but talking about her, about _this_ at such length was becoming agonizing.

"And you didn't tell him? Jack was genuinely confused. He would have thought that Sark would have held this particular piece of information over Vaughn's head as some kind of bargaining chip or, at the very least, as a latent form of torture while he himself was in captivity.

Sark just shrugged, not looking at either of them. His eyes were closing and, for once, he didn't fight the feeling of the end.

"It wasn't my secret to share."

"What?" Vaughn began to shriek. "What are you talking about? Just tell me, for God's sake!"

"She was pregnant, you ignorant fuck," Jack spat at Vaughn. "And it was yours. But your betrayal, your agenda, crushed her and she miscarried. And now you can take that guilt to your grave."

Vaughn started blubbering incoherently, words like "sorry", "baby", "heart" pierced through the misty fog of Sark's mind. He felt the pool of his own blood growing, expanding like a spring-fed pond.

"You are a stupid boy that was never good enough for her. I've heard enough from you," Jack told Vaughn coldly. "Shut up or I'll end you right this second and I think you and I both know I will not be merciful."

Jack turned the gun on Sark again, though Sark did not see. He leaned against the cool, smooth surface of the wall and it felt like her hand and it brought him comfort.

"Now, you," Jack said to Sark, not knowing how much the boy would understand in his rapidly declining state. "What do you have to say for yourself? More importantly, what do you have to say about _Sydney_?"

At the mention of her name, Sark opened his eyes. Blood obscured his vision but he directed his swollen gaze to Sydney's father.

"There's nothing I can say that will make me good enough for her," Sark breathed, in hitching gasps. "But being around her, it was enough for me. It makes me sad and pathetic, but the only good part of me was her. So for once, I'm okay with dying, because I finally l had a life worth living, if only for a little while."

Sark thought he must be on the verge of passing out, or dying, because he thought he saw a glimmer of surprise and, possibly, respect in the older man's eyes. But as soon as he caught the look Jack turned stoic again, all business.

"Being so close to death has made you maudlin, Mr. Sark," Jack said, the grip on his sidearm never wavering. "Sydney wouldn't stand for it."

"Oh, she'd hate it," Sark agreed, his eyes closing again. His strength ebbed away, his consciousness went in and out in waves. He did find it strange, as the blackness started to take over, that Jack Bristow's voice was going to be the last thing he heard.

"Well, boys, our chat has certainly proven to be illuminating," Jack said, more conversational now that the two of them were going to be dead in a moment. "I find myself more resolute than ever in my decision regarding the two of you. I know Sydney's a big girl and can make her own decisions, but, in the end, she is my daughter and I need to do what's best for her. You understand."

Sark heard Vaughn resisting, shouting useless pleas and curses at Jack, but he paid no mind. He always thought that in the end, he would feel cold and afraid, thinking of all the things he hadn't seen or done, all the things he was leaving behind. But really, he was warm, floating above it all, uncaring and free for the first time and last time. There was only one, coherent thought left that kept him tethered to this harsh and unforgiving plane of existence. It was a heartbreaking and weak feeling, really, and if he wasn't dying, he wouldn't dwell on it so much but, since it was the end, he let himself feel heartbroken.

He had never told her goodbye.

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack Chapter Thirteen

1. Cat Power, "Good Woman". **Listen to when**: Sydney takes the pregnancy test.

Lyrics: _I don't want to be a bad woman  
And I can't stand to see you be a bad man  
I will miss your heart so tender  
And I will love  
This love forever  
And this is why I am leaving  
And this is why I can see you no more  
This is why I am lying when I say  
That I don't love you no more_

2. Julian Plenti, "Games For Days". **Listen to when**: Sharon and Sydney have a heart to heart chat.

Lyrics: _In your eyes, I'd be televised,  
Great big lies, as the vulture flies,  
I meditate to grow wise, I declassify  
I take it all the way, I take it all the way  
'Cause you taste just like the others_

Baby, you've played my heart,  
But the way that you've played, it was art

3. Damien Rice, "Accidental Babies". **Listen to when**:Sydney gets her answer and flees the scene of the crime.

Lyrics: _Well I held you like a lover  
Happy hands and your elbow in the appropriate place_

And we ignored our others, happy plans  
For that delicate look upon your face

Our bodies moved and hardened  
Hurting parts of your garden  
With no room for a pardon  
In a place where no one knows what we have done

Do you come  
Together ever with him?  
And is he dark enough?  
Enough to see your light?  
And do you brush your teeth before you kiss?  
Do you miss my smell?  
And is he bold enough to take you on?  
Do you feel like you belong?  
And does he drive you wild?  
Or just mildly free?  
What about me?

Well you held me like a lover  
Sweaty hands  
And my foot in the appropriate place

And we use cushions to cover  
Happy glands  
In the mild issue of our disgrace

Our minds pressed and guarded  
While our flesh disregarded  
The lack of space for the light-hearted  
In the boom that beats our drum

Well I know I make you cry  
And I know sometimes you wanna die  
But do you really feel alive without me?  
If so, be free  
If not, leave him for me  
Before one of us has accidental babies  
For we are in love

Do you come  
Together ever with him?  
Is he dark enough?  
Enough to see your light?  
Do you brush your teeth before you kiss?  
Do you miss my smell?  
And is he bold enough to take you on?  
Do you feel like you belong?  
And does he drive you wild?  
Or just mildly free?

What about me?  
What about me?

4. Patrick Wolf, "Theseus". **Listen to when**: Jack and Irina chat.

Lyrics: _No surrender to a lover  
Or the wars of the news  
Of many blisses to uncover  
A black sail billows, the sun hits a blade  
And you are hungry, you are hungry for you  
And you are hungry, you are hungry for you  
With an appetite so dangerous  
You are hungry, you are hungry for you_

5. 30 Seconds to Mars, "Bad Romance". **Listen to when**: Vaughn and Sark have some serious man on man action.

Lyrics: _I __want your loving  
All your love is revenge  
You and me could write a (rad bromance) bad romance_

6. Sarah Fimm, "Afraid". **Listen to when**: Daddy cleans up after everyone's mess.

Lyrics: _I'd like to hold you close  
Make you feel safe  
Not so afraid of yourself  
If we have to part, so it shall be  
I'd like to help you suffer less  
Not be so locked up in your thoughts  
Afraid of love and all under the sun_


	24. Chapter 14

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: HARD R (NOTE THE RATING CHANGE), for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline**: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: Chapter 14 of 15 total chapters. I'll save the schmoopy stuff for the actual, FINAL chapter to follow. Chapter 14 soundtrack at the end of this post with the last chapter and the last soundtrack in the next. *Sniff, sniff*

* * *

"Hello, Sydney."

The voice that met Sydney's ears brought both comfort and pain. He knew just how to say her name to make her feel as small and vulnerable as a child. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment before her whole world changed.

"Hi Dad."

She turned and saw him there, looking the same as he ever did. The suit he wore was like any other she had ever seen him in since she could have memories about her father. The expression he wore, a mixture of regret and stoicism, was one she recognized, too. He was going to hurt her but he would hate to do it.

"You look...good." His voice raised a bit at the end, and she thought he might be losing his edge, because she knew immediately that he was lying.

"You're a better liar than that," Sydney said tiredly. She stood outside what could only be one of her father's storage facilities. A solid, remote building in the middle of Midwestern nowhere; a blight against the cold, beautiful background. The nondescript, windowless structure no doubt held something she did not want to see or dwell on, like the Dead Sea Scrolls or Jimmy Hoffa's body.

"I am a better liar than that," Jack replied. The cold air blew around him, ruffling his gray hair. "But after everything I've put you through, I feel that I shouldn't lie to you anymore."

Sydney looked down at the frostbitten ground. The dirt was hard and cold and she dug the toe of her boot into it, feeling a hollow sort of comfort in its unyieldingness. She would be as unyielding as the wintery ground, exhibiting the cold hardness she felt in her heart. "I received intel that there was a high-ranking Prophet 5 operative at this location. Are you going to tell me what's _really_ behind that door?"

"Like I said, Sydney, no more lies," Jack said in the sad, yet earnest way that was uniquely his own. "So I'll come clean. I've been stonewalling you the past two months. Hiding your location, hiding his, all so you wouldn't find each other until...until now. There is a high ranking Prophet 5 operative behind that door. It's the one you've been looking for."

Sydney felt the wind blow bitter cold against her face, drying the angry tears that threatened to spill down her face.

"Why do you think you can _do_ things like this, Dad?" Sydney wanted to be furious, she _was _furious, but when the accusation passed her lips, she could only think of how _tired _she was. How sad and small and _exhausted_ her mind and body felt. "Haven't I proven to you that I can take care of things myself? This is _my _life and _my _problems. You can't fix things for me anymore. Everything about me hurts and I just want it to stop."

"I can help," Jack said, looking away from her. He recalled Sark saying something akin to that before. _I love everything about her that hurts. _That only made this whole thing more difficult. It killed Jack, hurting her so. His intentions were always golden when it came to her, even if his methods were anything but. "And you hate me for it. You might never forgive me. I don't expect you to. But Vaughn is in that room. I expect you know what to do with him."

Sydney exhaled, letting out the breath she had been holding. "And what if I don't? What if I don't kill him? What if I let him walk out of there and let him live out the rest of his life?"

Jack's mouth set into a grim line. "I'd have to kill him myself. You wouldn't leave me much choice. He is too dangerous to be kept alive. I could've done it already, many times over, but I thought this was something you needed to do yourself. Don't make me do this for you."

Jack held out a gun to her. It looked dull and lifeless in the hazy, winter light. She shook her head and took out her own weapon. Despite the chill the gun was warm and almost comforting in this, the hour of her greatest triumph and her biggest regret.

There was no steeling herself for this. There was no preparation. When she thought she had killed him in the fire that consumed the whole church, it was an impulse, a cleansing, a cathartic and unholy burning of everything he had burned out of her. But now, when the task lay ahead of her, killing the man she still, somewhat masochistically, loved, she was not filled with anger as she should be. Sydney felt...sad. Sad but resolute. She knew how this would go. She could see it now, what she would say and do, and it felt right. He would die.

Not looking at her father, Sydney unclipped the magazine and started pushing the bullets out. One by one they fell lazily onto the ground until there was only one bullet left. She pushed the mag back into the gun.

She held her hand out to him.

"Give me the key to his cuffs."

Jack looked at his daughter with incredulity.

"You can't be serious."

"I don't think I could be more serious, Dad. Do more than you do for me and just...trust me. And give me the key."

Jack hesitated but, after a moment's hesitation, gave in to his daughter and handed her the small key. She turned from him and steeled herself for a question she didn't want to know the answer to but needed to ask before she broke apart.

"Sark was with him," Sydney says, the hand holding the key against the steel door. She caressed the cold metal, not wanting to face either her father or the task that lay ahead of her. "After he was shot..." Sydney's voice trailed off and her voice trembled, threatening her already thin cover of composure. "After Sark was shot, his body disappeared. I believe Vaughn had him abducted. Have you seen Sark? Do you know...is he alive?"

Jack was glad her back was to him so he wouldn't have to omit the real truth to her face after he swore not to lie to her anymore. He couldn't possibly tell her what he'd done with Sark. Just as he knew it had to be Sydney to be the one to bring an end to Vaughn, he knew he had to be the one to end Sark's treachery. Sydney did not have the foresight to see what Sark would become if left to his own devices. So Jack had taken it upon himself to put an end to Sark's sycophantic and sociopathic existence. He knew she would find out, sooner rather than later. He suspected Nadia would be the one to break it to Sydney; she would have the delicacy to break it to her softly. Jack did not.

"I think those are questions you should ask Vaughn", Jack answers, neither confirming or denying his involvement with Sydney's partner. "I think he'll have all the answers you'll need."

Sydney exhaled a long held breath, reached down, and opened the door. She nudged a rock with her foot and placed it in between the door and its frame, giving her an escape route when she needed it. A bare light flickered and stayed on, lighting the bare room in its sickly pallor. Bare except for the broken and bloody man at its center. The man she called friend. The man she called lover. The man she called fiancé. The man she called the father of her child. The man she called Michael. The man she would call dead in a few minutes time.

He looked up at her, bathed in the pale, ghostly light, and he looked dead already.

"God, you don't know how much I missed you," Vaughn whispered, his eyes hungrily drinking her in. His hands moved reflexively (to hold to to hurt her Sydney doesn't know) even though he was handcuffed to a chair that was cemented into the floor. "There are so many times that I wanted to find you, to explain..."

"Don't," Sydney interrupted, her voice surprisingly steady. "Don't try and explain."

"Why?" Vaughn asked, hope creeping into his voice. "Does it make it harder for you to kill me?"

"No," Sydney answered truthfully. "It makes it easier."

"Then I won't sit here and justify myself to you," Vaughn replied hoarsely. "I _will _tell you why it had to be you I chose, all those years ago. Why my father sent me infiltrate the C.I.A. and become close to you."

"I don't want to know," Sydney said numbly. "There was a time I did want to know, _needed_ to know. It doesn't matter now."

"Would it matter to you if I said I fell in love with you?" To his credit, he sounded sincere. But to Sydney, who had heard that sincerity for years and now knew it to be a lie, it meant nothing.

"I was supposed to be watching you, studying you, performing experiments on you, because you were the archetype, the _true_ Project Christmas child, and if you could be broken, with all your father's provisions against brainwashing, all of the Christmas kids could be exploited," Vaughn explained, his eyes earnest and bright.

"But I found ways around that, Sydney. I _protected_ you from my father. When I asked you to marry me it was _real_. I was cutting ties with my father, I sent an assassin to kill him, so we could be together. But he knew, he _knew_, and he created the car crash. In my comatose state he even buried me, to keep up appearances that I was dead. He dug me up, eventually, but I was in a coma for months. Only when he used the Rambaldi serum on me did I finally come back...came back and shot Sark."

He knew he had hurt her with that. His words cut like broken glass against her already fraying self-control. She didn't answer, for fear she would snap and crush his windpipe with her bare fists before she could find out what he knew.

"How could you?" Vaughn's voice sounded disgusted, yet held a tinge of morbid fascination. "You think me some kind of monster and yet you fuck that sociopath? You'd defend him to me, after only months of screwing him and years of loving me."

"I won't," Sydney answered, clear and strong. "I won't defend him. He's done things...terrible things that I cannot justify. But I've come to a point in my life where I feel I can be selfish. In the end, he has done horrible things...but not to me. He's never lied to me, which is more than I can say for anyone else in my entire life. I don't expect you to understand it because, in the end, you never understood me. And he did. And that's all I ever wanted."

Vaughn stared at her like she was the stupidest, most pathetic woman in the world.

"You're not the woman I fell in love with," he intoned venomously.

"I think it's pretty obvious you're not the man I fell in love with," Sydney replied with some semblance of her solid, steady self.

"Let's not belabor the point of this meeting," Vaughn said in a low voice. His eyes were hooded and resolute. He was fading, Sydney could see. He looked gaunt and sickly and she could tell the blood stains on his shirt were spreading as she stood here talking to him. "Why don't you just kill me and get it over with. You and I both know you want to."

"I'm not here to kill you," Sydney said quietly. "I should. I know that. No one would deny me my revenge. But even after everything you've done to me, I won't have your death hang over me for the rest of my life. But I will let you go out on your own terms. I will give you this gun. It has one bullet in it. It'll break your handcuffs but it won't get you out of this room. You could shoot me but my father would be waiting for you outside. If you do the smart thing, the _right_ thing, you could kill yourself and do the world and me a favor. In the end, this is your funeral. Consider this your eulogy. How you die is up to you."

Vaughn considered this. "What would it take to make you kill me?"

"Don't answer the one question I came here to ask you."

"And if I answer it, you'll let me do this myself?"

Sydney nodded, pointing the gun at him now. It felt surreal, knowing this was the last time she would look upon Michael's face. But her aim never wavered and her eyes were dry. There were bullet holes were her compassion used to be and anger in her heart. "Is Sark alive?"

"We were in Prague," Vaughn began, his eyes on Sydney's weapon. "My associates had brought him there at my behest and I was...interrogating him at my leisure. I had him doing odds and ends in the name of Prophet 5 until...your father came."

If Vaughn hadn't known her as well as he did, he might not have noticed that he broke her. Something inside her had been crushed and beaten at the mention of her father. Her face might made of stone but inside her heart was breaking.

"I passed out from loss of blood but before I did...," Vaughn trailed off. "Sark was pretty much dead. So, I guess the answer to your question lies with how well your know your father. Would he be the type to rescue Sark and nurse him back to health? Or...not. It might not be the answer you were looking for, Sydney, but I did answer your question. I think you owe me something."

"Right," Sydney said, blinking back tears. "Right. I did make a promise." Sydney approached her former lover and put the small key into the lock, freeing one of his hands while keeping the other safely bound to the chair.

"What would you have named it?" Vaughn asked, his hand reaching out, not to the gun, but to rest on her abdomen.

It was too much. Sydney felt the tears begin to fall in earnest now, but she did not slap his hand away, nor become angry. She simply stepped away.

"If she had lived, she would've been the only thing that would've saved you from me," Sydney whispered. "But she's long gone and there is nothing redeemable left in you. But I can still save you...the only way I know how." She held the gun out to him.

"I do love you, you know," Vaughn said very softly. He was crying now; it was the first and last time she had ever seen him cry. "It might not meant anything, but my love for you is true and it was the only real thing in my whole damn life." Before she could give him the gun he took her other hand. It wasn't a power play or a murder attempt. Vaughn held her hand in his, his thumb caressing her palm. It was a familiar and strangely comforting feeling. Slowly, painfully, Sydney pulled her hand away and replaced it with the gun.

"I know," she sighed, tears obscuring her last look at him. "Goodbye, Michael."

She backed away from him and stood in the doorway and stared at the man she knew as Michael Vaughn. He smiled his sad, knowing half-smile that Sydney knew so well and only then can she shut the door behind her.

The wind blew cold against her, drying the tears to ice on her cheeks. She pulled the collar of her coat around her neck to shield herself from the oncoming storm. Fat, white snowflakes fell heavily from the sky and already covered the ground in a soft blanket. Sydney knew she is painfully and utterly alone now; her father had left during the few minutes she spent in his storage facility. He must have known Vaughn would tell her of his betrayal and fled to face her another day. The only sign Jack Bristow was ever there was a gun placed gently onto the snow-strewn ground and heavy footprints leading out into oblivion.

Sydney walked over to the weapon and picked it up with shaking hands. She pointed it toward the door, where Andre Michauex was contemplating the last moments of his life. Sydney knew she should be thinking about Michael, in these last few moments they were both together, breathing in the air the other let out. But there was too much betrayal to think, too much heartbreak to feel. Everything about her was numb, except the part of her hands that held on to the gun, her only lifeline keeping her from breaking apart.

Then, through the cold and deadness, Sydney heard the crack of gunshot fill the air. Slowly, as if in a dream, she trudged through the thin layer of snow back to the door. The gun hung limply at her side as she opened it and looked inside.

Bits of skull and brain matter wallpapered the stainless steel interior but somehow she could look past the blood and gore. She could see past Andre Michauex and see past the baby she lost that had been his. When she opened the door and saw him there, he was just Michael, and he could hurt her no longer. She tracked snow into the room and left her footprints in the blood of a man she had loved with all of her heart.

There was no bracing herself for looking into his dead eyes. They were empty and devoid of any spark or life. She did not feel the need to rush this, taking in the last glimpse of this ruined shell of a man. She let the memories of Vaughn roll over her, not backing away from them for once, but truly reliving them and then, as quickly as they came, letting the recollections fade away until there was nothing left to remember.

Sydney shucked off one of her gloves and, with no hesitation, trailed her fingers over her former lover's eyes and shut them forever. The gun she had been holding clattered to the floor and she left it there as she turned away from the man she knew as Michael Vaughn.

She walked blindly into the snow. It was falling heavier now until she waded into a sea of infinite whiteness. She sobbed; inhaling great, cold lungfuls of frostbitten air to try and stop the pain. Somehow there wasn't enough oxygen between the dense snowflakes and she felt dizzy and stumbled, crashing down into the thin blanket of snow covering the ground. For a few moments, Sydney reveled in the stillness, the simplicity of just lying here, feeling the cold wash over her. It would be so easy just to lay here until...until _what_?

_No_, she thought to herself.

"No," she said it aloud now, and it helped, hearing her own small voice amongst the loud gales of wind. She'd allowed feeling sorry for herself for one moment, but not one moment more. "Get up."

Sydney slowly picked herself off the freezing cold ground. She would walk. Hell, she would run. She would keep running until there was something other than a tiny cabin with her ex-lover dead inside. She wouldn't stop until she found the only person left that would run with her.

She'd find Sark. Alive or dead, she'd run to him.

* * *

_"Hey Syd! It's Marshall. Um, I don't know if you check your secure work voicemail all that often. I know I don't check mine often, but that's only because I get like, one voicemail every week, and it's usually Carrie, telling me to pick up diapers for Mitchell or something. I think we're _this _close to getting him potty trained. I know it's a bit early for him but he's a genius, I'm sure of it, so the potty thing will be a piece of cake._

_I know it's been awhile since we talked, ever since we met at the al-may and I ate a yro-gay and I helped you track down Ark-Say. That's Pig Latin, if you didn't know. Do you know Pig Latin? I mean, you know, like, a million different languages so I'd assume you'd be fluent in Pig Latin. Anywho, I just wanted to say...uh, I'm not sure. I guess I just wanted to know you were okay. You were all weird and cryptic the last time we met, I mean, more than usual. Just because we don't work together anymore doesn't mean we don't all think about you. Everyone is worried about you, Syd. Carrie is always asking about you and I don't know what to tell her. Dixon looks like he's lost his best friend well, uh, because he has and poor Eric...you should really call him, Syd. He's in rough shape since Nadia...since Nadia passed. _

_I don't know if you'll even get this and even if you did, if you'd even call back. I guess I just wanted to say...hi. And don't be a stranger. And if you want to have dinner at de casa de Flinkman, you only need to stop by. And work just isn't the same without you. And if you decide you don't want to come back, just know that...you've been a great friend and I miss you. _

_Bye, Syd._

_

* * *

_

_To: _

_Subject: Employment Opportunity_

_Ms. Bristow,_

_I know it has been many months since you worked for APO and, probably even longer that you've checked your work email. I realize that due to certain personal issues, have expressed no desire to return to our fold. Contrary to popular belief, I sympathize with your situation and understand why you had made this decision._

_However, in light of an unfolding international situation, I must plead my case for your return. It involves an organization called The Noble Sword, and we are in need of your particular set of skills, Ms. Bristow. Not only that, we feel you may be a target and are concerned for your safety. APO can offer protection you would not be able to maintain on your own. _

_If you feel like this might be a ruse, you will undoubtedly recognize APO protocol in this encrypted email. Also, to cement the fact that it is me writing this, I forced to reveal that out Marcus' children, only Steven calls me Hayden. Robin still calls me Director Chase. I don't know if she'll ever warm up to me. Oh well, she wouldn't be the first or last person to find my demeanor a bit cold. I'm sure you would probably agree._

_At any rate, I strongly urge you to consider my offer. At the very least, I recommend you fortify yourself against the oncoming danger. And try checking your voicemail every once and awhile. Your friends are worried about you. I'll be in touch._

_Dixon says hi._

_Sincerely,_

_Director Hayden Chase, APO._

_

* * *

_

_Hey Sydney. It's Nadia. I know I'm supposed to be keeping a low profile but I guess I just needed to hear a familiar voice. Even though this is a secure line and you use an encrypted voicemail, it's risky. Our mother would be very disappointed in me, I'm sure. _

_I just wanted to let you know I'm coming out of hiding. There's a new threat forming around the Project Christmas kids. The Noble Blade has redoubled their efforts in taking out all the Christmas kids and APO is looking for capable agents to eliminate the fringe group. I figured being a Christmas kid myself I'd be perfect, and Dad agrees. APO would help protect us and bring down the Blade. Dad's already cleared it with Director Chase and I'm set to come back from the dead in about a month. You know how that goes. I can't wait to see Eric. As long as he hasn't shacked up with some evil blond, am I right? I'm sorry, that was in bad taste. I'm just so starved for social interaction I've become inappropriate. But I won't be isolated for long and I want you to be there when I come back. Please think about it. Other than tha -_

_

* * *

_

_Sorry about that, voicemail cut me off. It's Nadia again. As I was saying, other than what I just said, I just felt like I needed to talk to you, knowing what happened that day on the beach. Dad's kept me informed on certain things. I know about Vaughn...and about Sark. I don't even know what to say. Especially since I know what you'll do about it. I know what I would do if it were me and I just want to say please don't. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. _

_Revenge is important. I understand that more than anymore. With Roberto Fox, I was consumed with revenge and I let that get to me. Everything I did was just to fuel my vengeance and retribution. You've already been down that road, Syd. I know Vaughn can't get away with what he's done but it's not something you need to do on your own. You have me, you have your parents, and if you let them, you have your friends at APO. We all can help you bring Vaughn to justice. We could help you find Sark. About tha -_

_

* * *

_

_You have _the _shortest voicemail in the history of man, you know that? I feel like it's a double agent working against me. Ok, what was I saying? Right. About Sark. Look, this whole Sark isn't normal. I can't pretend I understand what the two of you have and, to be honest, I can't pretend I necessarily approve of it, either. He did stand by and watch me get tortured, you know. Yeah, I know it was all just for money but still, he's not my favorite person. That being said, what I can't get out of my head is how that man looked at you that day on the beach and, more importantly, how you looked at him. You seemed more like yourself than you had in a really long time and that's a good thing. You owe it to yourself to be happy and if that psychopath makes you happy and treats you well, then, fuck everyone else, Syd. If he's alive, you're obliged to be in one piece when he comes back. Not only that, you owe it to me, too. We've lost so much time together, I don't want to lose any more time being your sister. Think about it. You can throw me a "Welcome Back From The Dead" party. We'll make margaritas. _

_Love you._

Sydney hit the "delete" button and erased all the built up voicemails from the past few months. She had already purged her email account but it hadn't helped. It hurt, listening to the voices from her past but not as much as she thought it would. Before, after she lost the baby and after Vaughn's betrayal, the idea of going back to APO hurt like a fresh wound. But now?

Sydney paced back and forth across the hotel's plush carpet. The idea of returning to APO wasn't totally appalling. Even though it had been months since Vaughn's death, she had made zero headway in finding her father or Sark. Even if Sark was dead, even if her father had killed him, she just wanted to _know_. She could imagine her father, huddled in some cave or Eastern European hostel somewhere, still stonewalling her search. She was at a standstill. She couldn't, and _wouldn't_, move on until she had some sort of closure. But Sydney had come to the unfortunate conclusion she could no longer get to that place without some help.

Prophet 5 had folded, it's organization crumbling under its lack of leadership and the power struggle of its lesser members for control, but the Noble Blade had amped up its protocol, having already killed hundreds of Project Christmas kids in the past few months. Sydney could see no other alternative to bringing down the Blade, finding her father, and discovering Sark's ultimate fate than joining APO. She was good, the best even, but by herself she simply did not have enough resources to do it all. She could use APO to further her own mission. She should use the government organization to help her out and not the other way around for once.

And she would have Nadia. And Dixon and Marshall and Eric. If Sark was gone...God, it hurt to think that. If Sark was honestly and truly gone, she would had her friends at the very least. She might not tell them how much it hurt not having him here, like a phantom limb that still ached after its been lost. How even with Vaughn dead she had no peace, knowing Sark had died waiting for her to rescue him. They wouldn't know they were helping her get past his death by simply just...being. But there was something she had to do first, before she could go back to APO. A promise she had made she had to keep. This last show of faith was the least she could do for him, even if he wouldn't be there to see it.

Sydney stood in front of the French doors of her hotel room overlooking the Irish landscape at dusk. Tomorrow it six months since that day on the beach.

_"I will wait 6 months, the time we spent together, for you to come to me. After that, I won't wait for you anymore. _

_"Sark...don't..."_

"I will. I will wait. Just not forever."

He wouldn't be there. Deep down, Sydney knew this. She had shut him down, shut him out of her heart for so long and now he was dead in a ditch somewhere. He wouldn't be there to see her, waiting for him, like he had bid her to do, all those months ago. The gesture would be for naught, but she would do this for him. It would be the one thing she _could_ still do for him, to show him that she actually cared for him, wanted him, loved him even, that she couldn't do when he was alive. Not only for him, but for _her_.

She stared out at the cold, dark town of Galway and waited.

* * *

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Fourteen

1. Other Lives, "Black Tables". **Listen to when**: Sydney and Jack have a little talk.

Lyrics: _When the life in your eyes wants black  
Things return  
You've come back  
With your body and mine raised up  
It's good to see you once more_

2. AFI, "Prelude 1221". **Listen to when**: Sydney and Vaughn find each other.

Lyrics: _This is what i brought you.  
This you can keep.  
This is what I brought,  
You may forget me.  
I promise to depart,  
Just promise one thing,  
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep._

3. The Civil Wars, "Poison and Wine". **Listen to when**: Sydney and Vaughn say their final goodbyes.

Lyrics: _I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back  
The less I give the more I get back  
Oh your hands can heal, your hands can bruise  
I don't have a choice but I still choose you  
Oh I don't love you but I always will_

4. Andrew Belle, "The Ladder". **Listen to when**: Sydney hears from old friends.

Lyrics: Woe is me  
Faithless you and selfish me  
I will leave a key for you outside my doorway

_On a ladder from there to here I'll climb  
All this clatter between my ears I find  
Does it matter if I can't clear my mind?  
There's a right and a wrong time_

5. Brandi Carlile, "Before It Breaks". **Listen to when**: Sydney gazes over Galway.

Lyrics: _Say it's over  
say I'm dreaming, say I'm better than you left me  
Say you're sorry, I can take it  
Say you'll wait, say you won't  
Say you love me, say you don't  
I can make my own mistakes  
Learn to let it bend before it breaks_


	25. Chapter 15

**Title**: Foul-Weather Friend  
**Author**: waking_epiphany (Jamie)  
**Rating**: HARD R (NOTE THE RATING CHANGE), for language and sexy situations  
**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.  
**Pairings**: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.  
**Timeline**: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.  
**Summary**: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.  
**Author's Note**: Wow, this has been a long time coming. I don't even know what I want to say here in **the final chapter of "Foul-Weather Friend"**. I started this story back in 2005 with a vague concept and a fiery love for all that is Sarkney, not knowing that I'd actually finish this thing, and in 2010 no less! Above all, I need to thank all the amazing, thoughtful, inspiring, and faithful followers of my little story, without whom, this story never would have happened. I'd also like to thank all those Sarkney fanfic writers and vidders out there, whose amazing stories and videos have inspired and continue to inspire not only me but all Sarkney enthusiasts. They have kept the "Alias" love alive after all these years and for that, I am thankful. I have to say, I am sad at this, the end of "Foul-Weather Friend". Sad but hopeful that, maybe one day, many years from now, I can pick up where I left off: an ending that leaves the idea of a sequel an option. However, if that never happens, I am content with the (somewhat fluffy) ending I have written. In the end, I can only hope that I have entertained my fellow Sarkney fans and offered a glimpse into an alternate universe in which Sydney Bristow and Julian Sark could have realistically evolved from enemies to lovers. Thank you, _thank you_, _**thank you all so much**_. I am missing Syd and Sark already!

* * *

It wasn't so much a manor as it was a castle. It was plain to see that the large, stone monstrosity had once been beautiful. With its medieval architecture and grandiose appearance, the Lazaray Manor was something out of a fairytale. Set up on the cliffs overlooking the sea, the tower house was surrounded by a large stone wall with an actually turret that might have been servant's quarters at some time. The long walkway was flanked with sea-smooth rocks plucked from the cliff side. It was something little girls dreamed of when they decided they wanted to be princesses. But after years of neglect and vandalism, the whole structure had the air of abandonment and despair. Sydney shivered, but not from the cold.

She wound her way up the long walkway, pulling the collar of her coat closing to her neck. The large archway, nearly 14 feet high and only half as tall as the stone surround, held only one of the ancient wood doors. The other lay a few feet away, ripped off by its hinges and tossed aside like so much garbage. Sydney stepped over the rubble and through the stone wall into the courtyard.

The courtyard was small and overgrown with weeds. Several ancient, crumbling gravestones dotted the rocky ground, barely seen underneath an accumulation of ivy. Sydney kneeled down and wiped away as best she could to see the tombstones. Some epitaphs were so old you couldn't make out the writing but the newer ones all read "Lazaray". Sydney trailed her fingers lightly over the etched words for only a moment before standing. She looked to the door of the tower house, only to see it ripped off its hinges as well. She crept carefully over the rocky terrain, pulling her gun out as she walked into Sark's childhood home.

The large foyer was ancient, ugly, and empty. Tapestries had been ripped down from the walls and papers strewn about the floor. It had been ransacked ten, twenty years before and had since been forgotten, all alone above the cliffs of Galway. There was no sign that people had actually once lived and breathed here, amongst so much emptiness.

Sydney started walking through the manor, only to find more bare, plundered rooms. There were frames but the all the paintings had all been cut out. There were grand armoires and hope chests but they lay open, naked, and vulnerable. Candles were scattered here and there but no candelabras to hold them. Plush, expensive furniture lay turned over and ripped open, to reveal hidden fortunes, Sydney would never know. She let her hand caress the cold, medieval stone wall as she walked from room to room, wondering why Sark would want her to see this desolate, joyless place.

It was mostly open rooms, one empty room flowing seamlessly into another, except for one. Near the back of the castle was a large, ornate door, like one at the opening of a cathedral. Frowning, Sydney pushed open the door. It _was _a cathedral, only so much worse. There were overturned and crumbling pews, made of the same cold sea stone as the manor and a large wooden pulpit, looming over the room. Behind it, a breathtaking and terrible stained glass window stood intact. It was beautiful and terrifying; scene's of the Romanov's downfall, depictions of Rambaldi prophecies and, most graphic and horrible, the many deaths of Rasputin in alarming detail.

Sydney held her hand over her mouth, horrorstruck. How could Sark have grown up here? Her heart ached for the boy that Sark once was, growing up in all this darkness. She stood, transfixed, before she slowly started backing out of the room. For all the open bareness, Sydney suddenly felt claustrophobic. She imagined this was how Sark had felt as a child, so small and trapped in this prison. It was if there wasn't enough air amongst the dust and ruin and Sydney began to run.

She sidestepped bookcases and overturned chairs, desperate to get out. She could see the fading light from the doorway, she was almost outside, until she tripped over a piece of rubble. She landed hard on the stone ground, her gun spinning away from her. Her crash echoed through the cold, desolate room and she laid there for a moment, letting the waves of pain from her hands and knees pass. She raised herself to her knees, brushing off her front and hands and reached for her gun, when her eyes came to rest on a picture half hidden under a large, rough-hewn table. Frowning, Sydney crawled over the table and pulled out the square item.

It was a picture. The glass in the frame was long broken and the picture faded but Sydney knew exactly who was in the photo and she shivered. _This_ was Sark's secret? _This _was what he couldn't bear telling her?

Sark was about 10 or 11 in the photo, his hair the color of corn silk and his smile as twisted as the last time she saw him. His arm wound awkwardly around a young girl, only about 3 or 4 years old, with long wavy blond hair and the same crooked smile as his. Sydney turned the photo over and could still make out the spidery print etched on the back.

_"Julian and Devon, ages 11 and 4."_

Devon..._Devon_. Sydney's mind reeled back through the months. What had Sark's dossier said when she was going through all the Project Christmas children?

_"Andrian Lazaray left to pursue a relationship with aforementioned Sophie Bardot a year later, in hopes their combined dedication to Rambaldi would produce The Chosen One and later The Passenger. There is no documentation that any such child was conceived."_

"Oh, God," Sydney whispered, realization hitting her like a truck. The girl from the college campus, the computer whiz that had found Dr. Carlile's profile...she was Sark's half-sister. Andrian and his mistress hadn't produced The Chosen One, only a daughter that had been kept so hidden over the years that no one had ever guessed she was the half-sibling of Julian Sark.

What had Sark done that day at the University? There had been a transaction...Sark had complained he had lost a lot of money in it. What if...what if he had given Devon her half of the Romanov fortune that day? Sydney stared at the picture of the children unblinkingly until the image swam under her dry-eyed gaze. She finally closed her eyes and held the picture to her chest. She let herself feel sorry for Sark for one moment, but it was already one moment too much. He didn't want her to know about this part of his life for a reason but, despite what he would have wanted, Sydney took the photograph out of its broken frame and put it in her coat pocket. She would keep this small piece of him with her. For a second, looking at this lost moment in time, she almost felt if he were there with her.

Almost.

Sydney stood, brushed herself off, and walked out of the castle, welcoming the cold, sea breeze off of the bay. She had meant to turn down the walkway, back to her rental car but she found herself overlooking the cliffs. She could hear the waves crashing against the shoals. The wind off of the bay was cold and if she closed her eyes, Sydney could feel the sea spray on her face.

And then she knew. _This_ was why Sark wanted her here. Not for the broken down palace that had once served as a prison as well as a home. For this moment of peace, overlooking the green cliffs of his childhood. This would have something he could have shown her of himself. She would've chosen to come, chosen him, and they would have stood above the sea, together. Whether it would have been for the last time or for the rest of time, it wouldn't have mattered, because it would have been just the two of them, standing side by side.

She could almost hear him here, amongst the wind and crashing of waves. Maybe it was seeing him in the photo, or simply being here where he had spent the first few years of his life, but it was as if she could feel him near, as if he wasn't dead at all. The wind picked up and she could hardly make it out, but with the breeze and birds calling, it sounded almost as if someone had called her name. Sydney sighed, knowing she was only deluding herself, imagining Sark was calling to her. She was only punishing herself, standing here, waiting for a man that wouldn't come.

She closed her eyes and finally turned from the sea. She couldn't start walking away, not yet, so she stood, her eyes closed, her back to the cliffs, just waiting for the moment to walk away.

_"Sydney..."_

She wouldn't open her eyes, she wouldn't. The wind whirled around her and she could swear she heard him, calling to her, and she knew if she opened her eyes and he wasn't there, she'd break apart.

"Sydney."

She burrowed her face in her hands, waiting for the insanity to pass. She was shivering now, not from the cold but from the feverish sadness threatening to overwhelm her. She missed him so much she was hearing him now, hallucinating him when she needed him the most. She'd just wait. She'd wait for it to pass. She'd wait for the sting of missing him to pass and then she would open her eyes and walk away.

"Sydney, open your eyes."

Tears seeped from behinds her eyelids clenched so tightly shut. She felt cold hands wrap around the balled up fists covering her eyes and gently move them away from her face. Calloused fingertips wiped her tears away from her cheeks but she couldn't, she _wouldn't _open her eyes. She was imagining him, the touch of his hand, the caress of his voice. If she opened her eyes he wouldn't be there and it would like losing him all over again.

"Sydney."

Sydney felt a slight pressure on one eyelid, and then the other, like kisses stolen in the night and only then did her eyes flutter open.

Julian Sark stood in front of her, looking the same as he ever did.

He smiled. "I knew you would come."

Sydney stood, motionless, for what seemed like ages. "I thought...I thought you were dead."

Sark lifted a bruised hand to her face and laughed. "You would've liked that, wouldn't you. You wouldn't have had to admit you missed me."

"I did miss you," Sydney whispered, not bothering to pretend anymore. Tears streamed down her face and Sark's face broke into the smile reserved only for her. "I missed you so much, you stupid boy."

"I missed you too," he said softly. They stood for a moment in silence, with only the whip of the wind around them making a sound. Suddenly she reached under his arms and held him as tightly as she could, burying her face in his chest, like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.

"Oh, Sydney," Sark whispered, enveloping her in his arms. He put one arm protectively around her shoulder and wound one hand through her long, dark hair. They stood for a few moments, not speaking. Simply being in each other's presence...it was enough. It always had been.

Sydney was the one who broke the embrace after a few moments. She stepped back to look at him, not quite believing he was here. And then, out of nowhere, punched him hard in the shoulder.

"Ow!" Sark yelped, clutching at his shoulder. "I was shot there, you silly thing! That really hurt! What was that for?"

"_That _was for letting me think you were dead for six months, you inconsiderate shit," she was yelling and she was getting more and more angry, but only because Sark couldn't stop laughing. She kept pelting him in the arms and shoulders until he could hardly talk for all the laughing. He held his hands up in a gesture of truce and she finally stopped pummeling him.

"I'm sorry, it's not funny, it's just that...God, Sydney, I missed you so much."

"You have a funny way of showing it," Sydney muttered, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"I couldn't let you know I was alive until everything settled down a bit. With all the brainwashing and your father freeing me from your ex's torture dungeon and what not."

"My father?" Sydney repeated, dumbfounded.

"See, I would have thought the words 'torture dungeon' would've piqued your interest," Sark answered drolly. "But yes, Sydney, your father freed me, put me up in a pretty nice CIA-run hospital and, incidentally, gave me a new job."

"Wait, what?" Sydney suddenly felt dizzy and decided that sitting down on the cold, moist ground would be the smartest thing to do before she fell over from shock. She looked up at his ludicrously handsome face from her new seat of rocks and dirt. "I don't even know which one of those things I should ask about first."

"It's a long boring story," Sark answered, who looked down at her on the ground and grinned. "Long story short, Agent Vaughn shot me on a beach, kidnapped me, brainwashed me, and almost killed me until your Dad stepped in. I spent a good four months in recovery in a very nice hospital suite going by the name of _Günter _Baumgaertner. And, when I was all better, Jack and Director Chase stopped by and wanted me in APO as a consultant for an emerging terrorist threat that I somehow have intimate knowledge of. The Noble Sword, have you heard of it?"

Sydney rolled her eyes up at him and grunted in a most feminine manner.

"Anyway, your Dad went off on some soapbox about 'ending my treachery' and 'living up to my potential', while advising me to ''stop sniffing around his daughter' and 'stop being such a sociopath'. As if I could do any of those things! He figured the only way to facilitate the new and improved Julian would be too keep an eye on me at APO, hence, the new gig. So, in the end, I'm a good guy now. It's terrible lame and droll but the insurance is really quite good."

"This is all too much. My God, the air quotes. I think I am going to faint," Sydney muttered, her hand going up to her head.

"Not on my watch," Sark said and bent down, somewhat painfully, and picked Sydney up from under her arms so that she was standing on wobbly legs. He held her arms and when he didn't let go, she stared at him.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a sister?" Sydney reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the picture of him and Devon.

"Oh, that little chestnut," Sark muttered, releasing her arms and sweeping one hand through his hair. He reached for the photo but, at the last second, drew his hand away.

"There isn't much to tell. We only met a handful of times in our youth. After Irina started mentoring me and I got sent off to boarding school, I didn't need to come here anymore or see my father ever again and that's exactly the way I wanted it. That included Devon, I suppose. We aren't like you and Nadia. We can't be a family, it just doesn't work. We're civil and polite to one another, especially now that I've relented on the whole Romanov inheritance thing. Really, she had to deal with our father more than I did, God bless her, so she really does deserve more than half, but what can I say? I'm selfish."

Sydney shook her head. "You could have told me. If anyone would have understood, I would have."

"I know you would have," Sark affirmed and smiled again. In fact, he couldn't stop smiling. He could never remember smiling much, as a child or as an adult but somehow, when he got around this woman, he just couldn't help himself. "There were simply more pressing issues to deal with at the time. I'm sure there are things that you haven't told me."

Sydney sighed and looked to the cliffs. She couldn't hold it back anymore. The words came bursting out of her unbidden, and she sounded mildly hysteric even to herself. "I had a pregnancy scare, I made my ex-fiancé kill himself, and I think I'm going back to APO."

Sark's mouth fell open and he literally did not speak for a full minute before he eloquently replied, "Wow."

Sydney's rejoinder was just was profound. "Yeah."

Sark stepped closer to her but did not touch her. "Are you...alright?"

Sydney kept her eyes to the sea. "No," she whispered. "I'm not. But I will be." She tore her eyes way from the horizon, afraid of what she would see in Sark's face. He was staring at her like some precious, delicate thing.

"Wow," he repeated. He blinked hard and shook his head and could not shut his gaping mouth for anything. Without a word, Sark placed his open palm on her abdomen and held it there, as if he could still feel the baby that never was.

Sydney looked into his momentarily gormless face with a mixture of horror and amusement, so taken out of the serious moment at this strange gesture of affection.

"Wha...what are you doing?"

"Just...thinking."

"Did you hear me? Vaughn's dead. I pretty much murdered him. It was very emotional. I cried. A lot."

"Uh huh," Sark murmured, his hand resting ever so gently on her stomach. "Wow. Just...wow."

Sydney sighed. "Are you done, now?"

Sark broke his gaze from her middle and looked up at her, his clear blue eye alight with awe and wonderment. "Um...yes." He cleared his throat, removed his hand from her stomach and awkwardly stood up. He moved a few feet away, as if trying to distance himself from the situation.

She stared at him for a few moments until she couldn't hold back what she had to say.

"That was weird."

"I know," he replied with visual embarrassment. "I don't know what came over me. Let's forget it ever happened."

"Done."

"So, Vaughn's dead? That's amazing!"

"Sark!"

He sighed and closed his eyes, as if bracing himself. "Alright, that might have been in bad taste. But we can talk about it. We can talk everything or nothing, whatever you want. We have all the time in the world."

Sydney couldn't stop staring at him, like if she tore her eyes away he might not be there when she looked back.

"You're wrong," she whispered. "We don't have forever. It could be gone in an instant. When I thought...when I thought you were..."

"I know," Sark interrupted, his face softened. In that moment, he looked so sincere and honest and yet, so inexplicably _Sark_, Sydney couldn't quite believe her eyes. "You're right. We don't have forever. But we have right now and we can make the most of it. Starting right now, if you'll come with me."

And, for once, it was her going to him. She closed the gap between them, encircled his neck with her arms, stood up on her tippy toes, and kissed him. It was a slow kiss, but sweet, and full of promise. Without a word she let him go and they started to walk away from the cliff face.

"So, how are you going to break it to your work friends that we are dating?" Sark asked casually, leaning in to trap a lock of Sydney's hair between his fingers as they walked. He brought the strand up to his nose and inhaled deeply, before Sydney batted his hand away in exasperation.

"Oh, for the love of...we're not dating, Sark."

"So we'll just be meeting in secret for depraved trysts until we are somehow inexplicably found out and then everyone knows? Great plan."

"Ug, you're the worst," Sydney lamented, letting out a sigh of vexation as she smiled.

"You love it," Sark replied, winking at her.

"Yeah, you're right."

The wind blew cold around them and he offered her his arm.

Sydney looked down at the proffered arm and, with no hesitation, threaded her arm through his. They walked away from the past and the sea and into their own kind of forever.

Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter Fifteen

1. Civil Twilight, "Letters From The Sky". Listen to when: Sydney roams the Lazaray Manor.

Lyrics: _One of these days letters are gonna fall from the sky telling us all to go free  
But until that day I'll find a way to let everybody know that you're coming back, you're coming back for me  
'Cause even though you left me here I have nothing left to fear  
These are only walls that hold me here  
Hold me here, hold me here  
The only walls to hold me here_

2. Blue October and Imogen Heap, "Congratulations". Listen to when: Sydney and Sark are reunited.

Lyrics: _My mind it kind of goes fast  
I'll try to slow it down for you  
I think I'd love to take a drive  
I want to give you something  
I've been wanting to give to you for years  
My heart_

3. Live featuring Chris Daughtry, "Mystery". Listen to when: you're imagining "Foul-Weather Friend" is a movie and this is the song playing over the closing credits.

Lyrics: _My ammunition won't load into my gun  
My inhibitions, they fall like the weight from a stone  
You lead my heart away like a homeless, dusted fool  
Somehow this dime store ring still shines like a diamond to you_

Oh, how it deepens  
Oh, how it deepens

Your mystery  
Keeps on turnin' me on  
Your mystery

Thought I knew the rules, thought I held it in my hand  
Thought I was bulletproof till the blood pooled up in the sand  
Are you a satellite, a shooting star or a dove?  
Did we put you way up there or did God send you down from above?

Oh, how it deepens  
Oh, how it deepens

Your mystery  
Keeps on turnin' me on  
Your mystery  
Burns me up like the sun  
Your mystery

Mine eyes have seen the glory of a love that does transcend  
Mine eyes have seen the worst inside of man  
And fear is like a fallen bridge broken from an edge  
And the proof is in the bloodshot eyes of the one who failed to see


End file.
